


Waiting for the Rain

by sugarplumfairy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action & Romance, I'm not sure yet, Japan, M/M, Slow Burn, i like my romances like i like my wine, possible banging, shimada family shenanigans, sweet and slow burning, third wheel genji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-08-22 18:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8296300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarplumfairy/pseuds/sugarplumfairy
Summary: When the Shimada clan reaches out to Hanzo and Genji for the first time in years, the two of them must travel back to their homeland to mourn a treasured clan patriarch with only a tenuous promise of a ceasefire standing between them and the full wrath of the family they have both rejected. Before leaving Gibraltar, Winston assigns them a Blackwatch security detail to ensure their safety- but even still, three men are no match for a den of dragons.





	1. Start Over, from the Beginning

It was raining in Gibraltar.

It had been raining for the past week, in fact- a coastal storm system that refused to let up for more than a few minutes at a time, which made air travel impossible and ventures into the city extraordinarily difficult.

As the downpour washed over the tarmac and the paved roads between warehouses and hangars, the usually lively Watchpoint fell nearly silent as the members of the reformed Overwatch found themselves confined to the main building. Not that they had any real need to leave the central complex, as it hosted the dormitories, the foodstores, and the practice ranges, as well as the medical bay and laboratories.

The dull thud of raindrops served as both a peaceful backdrop and a constant reminder of their imprisonment, punctuated by the crash of waves against the rocky cliffside, driven to rage by the howling winds. And while the orange-painted walls of the Watchpoint had initially seemed to substitute the absent sunshine, they soon became an eyesore as they were the only sight one could see.

Reinhardt and Lúcio had ventured into the basement and dug out a box of old prewar films, which provided hours of rainy day entertainment. But eventually even they lost their novelty, leaving the inhabitants of the Watchpoint to conquer their boredom in their own ways.

Winston retreated into the lab, claiming to do research while amusing himself with cat videos. Hana could only be seen stealing armfuls of sodas and chips from the kitchen and disappearing back into her room, where passersby could hear her angrily shouting in Korean, with snippets of “GG” and “Love, D.Va.” Jack and Ana could be found in the practice range, chattering about the old days and looking to outperform each other on the course.

Hanzo spent the majority of his days at the Watchpoint on the balcony that was cut out into the cliffside, overlooking the sea, a habit that the storm had not changed. He was a constant, and it was mutually understood that the time he spent scanning the usually still waters with his dark, steely eyes was time meant for him alone.

Genji would join him occasionally, and sometimes the brothers would sit in silence, sipping tea from the white-and-orange ceramic mugs that the kitchen kept for public use. More rarely, they could be seen conversing quietly in their native tongue, exchanging tentative jokes and sharing warm, wistful laughter in the way that only two long-estranged brothers would.

When Genji approaches him on the fifth night of the storm, Hanzo is seated against the near wall, far enough from the edge to avoid the spray of the incessant waves, nursing a mug of tea as the rain pounds the roof above him. The metal railing glistens, the rainwater reflecting the golden glow of the hallway behind it and the glimpse of white moon through the heavy storm clouds above. Through the adjacent wall, faint blips and gunshot noises could be heard from the small Super Smash Bros. gathering in the rec room.

A crash, and a high-pitched, anguished, “헐! 다시 한번 해 보자구!” _Dammit! Let’s try that again!_

Hanzo pays it no mind.

“Why do you not join them?” Genji asks, his mechanical joints whirring slightly as he eases himself into a sitting position.

Hanzo takes a sip of his tea. “I was not invited.”

It takes a moment for the statement to register before Genji bursts out laughing. He puts a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Brother, you did not need an invitation. The team is happy to have you there.”

“It does not matter, I did not want to join them,” Hanzo replies, waving at Genji dismissively. “You know that I am no good at video games.”

Genji laughs again. “And do you think anyone is measuring up to Hana? It’s not about winning, Hanzo. It’s about friendship. Making memories.”

When Hanzo fails to respond, Genji stands up and turns to leave. He pauses in the hallway entrance, and looks down at his brother.

“I think you should join them. It would be good for you.”

And then he is gone, and Hanzo watches as the tail of his scarf disappears around the corner.

He sighs and takes a sip of his tea, which, he notes, is getting cold. He’ll have to leave his perch soon.

Almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he notices the beginning of a pungent, heady scent pervading the air. He wrinkles his nose in disgust as he recognizes it as cigarillo smoke.  

_Like a skunk_ , he thinks to himself as he stands up and leans over the railing.

Sure enough, on the level below him, a thin trail of smoke winds its lazy way through the air, its source hidden by a weathered cowboy hat that only serves to further identify its owner. He tips the brim of his hat up with a gloved hand as he gazes out over the tumultuous waters, and the sliver of temporary moonlight casts a white glow on his face.

_The cowboy_. The rough caricature of a man with the tattered red serape and the scruff that he liked to call a “beard.” He was loud- his clinking boots, his impractical gun, his booming voice with the exaggerated drawl. He was messy- his stinking, cheap cigars, his unkempt hat-hair, the permanent stench of alcohol that followed him. And, oh, above all-

Above all, he was crass. The way he defiled and butchered the English language. The way he carried himself, still living like a bum stowing away on the tops of trains. The way he wore that tacky, flashy belt. Hanzo had asked Genji what the gold-embossed letters stood for- the younger Shimada had cackled and refused to give a straight answer. So he had looked it up, out of idle curiosity, and nearly died of second-hand embarrassment.

And as a gust of wind funnels more of the cigarillo fumes up to his level, he realizes that he could very well die of second-hand smoke standing in that spot. Trying not to cough, he turns and enters the warmth of the hallway.

_Just as well_ , he thinks- his tea is near freezing, anyway.

The hallway is empty as he makes his way to the kitchen, but as he gets closer to the rec room he hears now not just Hana, but Lena and Lúcio as well.

He sets his mug down on the kitchen counter, puts a kettle on the stove, and looks over at the ajar door across the way, where the three of them have piled pillows and blankets, controllers in hand and eyes glued to the screen.

He allows himself a small chuckle as Hana throws down her controller and raises her hands in double peace-signs, blowing raspberries at the other two. Lena shoves her gently, laughing, and they turn their attention back to the screen for the next round. The open chip bags and empty soda cans are evidence enough that they have been there for a while.

The water is close to boiling, and Hanzo switches it off before the pot can whistle, pouring it into his mug. He takes in a deep breath as the steam rises, carrying with it a light herbal scent. He takes his mug and crosses the hallway, watching their game quietly from the doorway.

It is hardly a game. One player is clearly beyond the other two, and Hanzo has no doubt that it is the youngest one in the room. She makes quick work of them, and celebrates her victory with finger guns.

“C’mon Hana, stop playing Sheik, she’s like… way too O.P.,” Lena groans as the victory screen rolls.

“아니! 게임 하면 이겨하지.”

“Girl. I love you and all, but I don’t speak Korean,” Lúcio says.

 “She says she plays to win.” The words are out before Hanzo even realizes it.

Hana turns to Hanzo with an impish grin, and Lena and Lúcio turn to him in mild shock.

“The old man’s right! That’s my catchphrase,” Hana winks and wags a finger at Lúcio and Lena, “So you all better learn it!”

Hanzo finds himself smiling when Lúcio asks him, “Hey Hawkeye, where did you learn Korean?”

“When I was growing up. The Shimada family often had dealings with gangs in South Korea.”

“That’s cool, man. Hey, you want in on a game? We’ve got another controller here somewhere.”

“Yeah, come on, Hanzo!” Lena pleads.

Hanzo laughs nervously. “I don’t play video games.”

All three visibly deflate. Hanzo feels a twist in his gut, knowing that he needs to say something- that this is what Genji was talking about.

He scans the room- the open windows splattered with rain, the three huddled together in their swath of blankets, the space heater in the corner. Memories.

“But… would you mind if I sat and watched?”

“Of course!”

“네, 여기 앉으세요!”

“Yeah, man!”

Hanzo sits down next to Hana, and takes a sip of his tea as they reselect their characters.

“Hana, stop playing Sheik,” Lúcio groans when she goes straight for her main.

“Fine. I can still kick your ass as Kirby.”

He watches as they start another game, a wildly impractical 3-man battle on a ship in flight. He assumes Hana is controlling the innocuous, cutesy pink ball, as she still manages to take center stage, swallowing and spitting her opponents over the edge of the map.

“This is unrealistic. You have no way to protect your flank.”

“D.Va doesn’t need to protect her flank,” Hana replies, “D.Va’s enemies are too busy trying not to die.”

“God friggin’-“ Lena says as Kirby’s hammer smacks her Pikachu off the screen.

The match is over quickly, and when Kirby reigns the results screen once again, Lúcio tosses a controller into Hanzo’s lap.

“I told you, I do not-“

“-Yeah, I know, you don’t play video games. But we need all the help we can get if we’re gonna beat her.”

Sighing, Hanzo sets his mug down and takes the controller in his hands. It feels clunky, unfamiliar.

“What are the controls?”

“Joystick to move, A for weak attack, B for strong attack. These make you dodge, that makes you jump, and this puts up a shield.”

“Why would I use a weak attack if I have a strong one at my disposal?”

“You can do ‘em faster, so a few quick weak attacks will do the same damage.”

The character select screen pops up, and Hanzo tests the joystick’s sensitivity. Hana, Lúcio, and Lena select their characters quickly, but Hanzo squints at the screen, unfamiliar with the choice of characters.

“Aw, you should be Pit! Got the bow and all!” Lena says excitedly, drawing back an imaginary bow and letting it go. “Twang!”

Lúcio and Hana voice their agreement, and Hanzo selects the winged archer. As the match starts, he finds that the restriction of his movement is nearly unbearable.

“There is no depth of field- it is infuriating,” Hanzo grumbles as a smack from D.Va’s hammer sends him flying off the side. “And there is no precision to these strikes.”

Lúcio laughs. “You’ll get used to it.”

“How can you even become proficient at this? It is not even remotely like a real battle.”

“It helps take the edge off,” Lena responds, her usual chipper tone dampening. “When you’ve been in enough real fights, it makes these fake ones almost… relaxing.”

The mood turns somber for a moment, until Kirby’s ultimate sends them all careening into the virtual sky.

“All right lads, we’re grouping up. I want to at least put a scratch on her.”

The three respawn and Kirby waits impatiently, sucking at empty air and jumping around the screen.

“We’ve all got one life left, and I wanna use it to take at least one of Hana’s.”

“Suicide mission. I’m down.”

“Hey! No fair!”

The three drop from the respawn point simultaneously, and Pikachu and Yoshi rush Kirby to the edge. They all collide and careen off the platform, but Kirby puffs and starts to float up.

“NO!” comes the anguished cry from the fallen warriors.

Pit, still on the ledge, fires a single shot, breaking Kirby’s flight just enough to send him pummeling down into the abyss below the screen.

Hanzo barely has time to register the moment before he is pinned into a hug, and Lena and Lúcio laugh and whoop in joy, beyond caring when D.Va respawns and bats Hanzo’s idle character off the platform.

“You did it!” Lúcio laughs. “You saved our dignity, man! WOOHOO!”

Hana punches Hanzo in the shoulder lightly. “Lucky shot, grandpa. You won’t get so lucky next time.”

The mood is infectious, and Hanzo finds himself smiling as he gently shoves back. “I am only 19 years your elder- do not think me an old man.”

The weight of Lena’s earlier comment has dissipated completely by now, and huddled in the blanket between these younger members of the team, he feels a warmth. It is different from the warmth of the space heater in the corner, or from the tea slowly growing cold on the table. It is hard to describe, but it is a feeling that fills him up. From the inside.

The moment is broken by the insistent buzzing of his phone. He apologizes politely, scoops the phone off the table, and moves into the hallway to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hanzo.”

“Genji, what is it?” He responds, hearing the urgency in his brother’s voice and slipping into his native language.

“Have you been checking your email?”

“No, wh—“

“Meet me in Winston’s lab. As soon as you can.”

* * *

The lab looks lived-in, to be sure. Papers clutter nearly every surface, and the wastebasket is overflowing with discarded banana peels, in varying states of decay. Winston himself sits at a desk, pushing his glasses farther up what little nose he has as he pulls up files on the holographic computer screen.

Despite having not been seen outside of his lab for days, he looks like he has been maintaining his hygiene.

As much as a gorilla can, in any case.

“We’ve been contacted by the Shimada clan,” he rumbles in his deep baritone.

Immediately, Hanzo starts.

“What? But we have not… how long ago? What did they say—“

“—That there has been a death in the family.” Genji cuts him off, and although none of his emotions are visible through his visor, his crossed arms and gruff tone tell Hanzo that he is less than pleased by the news.

Winston points a stubby finger at a timestamp on the screen.

“We received the message roughly an hour ago, and when I opened it I contacted the two of you straight away.” He turns to Hanzo and lowers his glasses, looking him directly in the eye. “I would not withhold information from you. Especially for something this important.”

Hanzo nods curtly. “What does the message say?”

Winston pushes his glasses back up and turns back to the computer. “Like Genji said, it says that there has been a death in the family- an uncle by the name of ‘Akio?’”

The name shoots through Hanzo like a bullet, a shiver up his spine, and he glances to Genji for a reaction, but finds none. His shock must be visible, because when Winston turns to him he lowers the glasses again and his dark eyes are rich with empathy.

“I’m… sorry. Was he close to you?”

“He was--” He clears his throat. “It is not important. Continue. Please.”

Winston nods solemnly and swivels his chair back. “There will be a funeral service in Shimada Castle, and they want you and Genji to be there. They want a temporary truce so that the whole family can mourn him. They say they want his death to be received with the honor he had in life.”

Hanzo swallows against a knot in his throat. It’s a lot to take in. “They… want us there?”

“That is what they said. They want a ceasefire, just for the funeral.”

“When is the ceremony?”

Genji bristles, taking a step forward. “Hanzo, you cannot seriously—“

“—Genji, Akio is dead! This could be the start of the ‘peace’ you so desperately want me to seek!”

“This is not the way, brother! I meant to make peace with yourself, not with your enemies!”

Winston clears his throat, and both Shimada brothers turn to him as the booming cough reverberates through the otherwise empty lab.

“Obviously, I cannot dictate how you handle your family affairs. But I will point out that this storm has us grounded for the time being. The ceremony is being held five days from today, which may give it time to dissipate.” He pauses. “But Hanzo, even you must realize that this could very well be a trap.”

Hanzo looks down, feeling his face begin to flush. His eyes begin to water, but he fights the inexplicable urge to cry, his cheeks burning hotter with shame. Why would he cry? Anger? Grief? Embarrassment?

_Of course it could be a trap_ , he thinks bitterly.

“Only the carp that swims up the waterfall becomes a dragon,” he says, and he feels his hands trembling as he does so.

And then, a cold hand on his shoulder. He looks up to see that Genji had moved beside him- _Silently_ , he thinks again.

“Hanzo, the Shimada clan cannot give you back your honor,” he says in Japanese. Then he pauses, and switches back to English. “But if this is what you want, then I will follow you into the dragon’s den.”

Hanzo looks at him, and for a moment he imagines seeing past the bright green visor, into the eyes of his brother- the eyes that had lost their luster long ago. He imagines the scars that had shown themselves to him on that fateful night in Hanamura, and suddenly he feels weary, like a weight has been added to his shoulders.

“Genji, I cannot ask that of you. If this is a trap, they will kill us, for certain.”

“They will try.” The mask does not move, but Hanzo imagines Genji’s mischievous, wide grin behind it. “We have survived worse, Hanzo.”

Genji looks to Winston expectantly.

The gorilla lifts his glasses and massages his forehead with an exasperated expression.

“The likelihood of this going south is far larger than the odds I’m comfortable with.” He puts his glasses back on and eyes the brothers with a disapproving frown. “But if this is what you want, I will assist you as best I can.”

“We do not need—“

“I’m assigning you a covert security detail. Just an extra set of eyes.”

“Hold on. The invitation was extended to us two only—“

“I am aware. He will not be entering Shimada Castle or be publicly associated with you two at all. Just simple ops, under a false name. Typical Blackwatch kind of thing, back when they were still around.”

“’He?’” Hanzo asks. “So you have someone already in mind?”

“Indeed.”

Winston says it nonchalantly, almost dismissively- but for some reason, a rock drops into Hanzo’s gut.

He will mull this feeling over for the rest of the night, wondering if it was a premonition of some sort, or a subconscious deduction, or some supernatural force telling him that the tofu from the fridge was not edible 5 days past its expiration. But he will come to the same conclusion, time after time, and even throughout the months and years afterwards- when the moon decides that the tide will roll in, there is no force on heaven or earth that will stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Couple things:  
> -Super shout-out to Emily (thatsoneginger.tumblr.com), the best beta in the whole wide world~  
> -The untranslated D.Va line is essentially just an honorific way of saying "Sit here."  
> -It is my firm belief that Hanzo and Genji will slip into their mother language, Japanese, when they talk to each other- but for readability, I'll just say "in Japanese" or whatever.  
> -That Halloween update tho. I see u Blizzard, baiting us with Mchanzo. Ya jerks.
> 
> Peace, y'all! Thanks for reading! <3


	2. Liminal Spaces

 

Almost as if by a miracle, the storm clears by the next day.

The sunshine lifts everyone’s spirits, and for the first time in days the sound of laughter from the outside drifts in through open windows. Lúcio brings out a soccer ball from his room, and Torbjörn erects two goalposts across from each other on the tarmac.

 Lúcio invites Hanzo to join, but he politely refuses- he has more pressing matters to attend to.

_Jesse McCree._

_Hanzo had done a double take when Winston spoke the name, and immediately sputtered out his dissent-_

_“No, absolutely not! I refuse-“_

_“I will not equivocate on this matter.”_

_“Agent McCree is a buffoon!”_

_“Agent McCree is a capable man and a former Blackwatch operative. He’s run covert ops before, and he can do it again.”_

_And then he had retreated to his room, continuing to mutter to himself that “covert_ _” was likely not included in the man’s vocabulary._

None of them had expected the skies to clear so soon, but Hanzo takes it as a positive sign. They make their plans for departure, and after a brief meditation on the balcony Hanzo disappears into his room to begin packing his bags.

He changes into civilian clothes, simple slacks and a powder-blue dress shirt, and neatly folds his obi and stores it in the bottom of his bag. He takes Storm Bow and his quiver from its hook on the wall, and places it carefully on top of the folded black silk beneath. He piles shirts and pants around it. From the small closet he retrieves a black suit in a plastic garment bag, a set that has seen little use in the past few years. He turns it over and quickly inspects it for holes or torn seams, and, finding none, he places it on top of his other items.

He stands up and looks around at the dormitory. The room is lightly decorated, the only wall adornments of his own being his university diploma, a calendar, and a generic wall clock- hardly enough to smother the bright orange paint.

The furniture arranged on the white tiled floor is basic, generic-looking; it makes the room feel like a glorified army barrack. A white, glossy bedframe, low to the ground and covered in stark white bedding; a white, glossy desk with a brandless desktop computer; a white, glossy six-drawer dresser adorned with a single potted plant that he had found at the marketplace down the road, wilting from obvious neglect and from the harsh sunlight. Hanzo had brought it home and nursed it back to health- he felt that the plant returned the favor by freshening his room.

He bends down to zip up his bag when a few rapid knocks on his door interrupt him. The scent of smoke and alcohol hits him before the voice does, and he feels his face instantly contort into a scowl.

“Hey Hanzo, ya got a minute?” comes the muffled, drawled inquiry from the other side of the door.

Hanzo’s voice comes across harsher than he means it to. “What is it that you want?”

“Just wanna talk. You mind openin’ up?”

With a heavy sigh, Hanzo straightens up and pulls the sliding door open, looking up at his guest and silently wishing he was taller. He had almost forgotten that the cowboy stood a good five inches above him, and as he frowns at the muddied boots that track dirt to his doorway, he realizes that he does not make for an intimidating figure at the moment.

“What is it?”

McCree shrugs, and Hanzo catches his dark brown eyes wandering past his shoulder and into the room beyond. “Just wanted a little background on your clan. Wanna know what I’m gettin’ into.”

“You should know enough. Were you not part of the team that brought them down from power?” Hanzo retreats a step and tugs at the door, starting to pull it closed.

“Now, hold on. That wasn’t my operation.” McCree waves his gloved hand dismissively. “’Sides, I reckon there’s stuff we ain’t heard yet. Who’s this Akio fella?”

Hanzo retreats another step. “That is not vital information.”

“Like hell, it ain’t vital information. Look, I—“

“If all goes according to plan, you will have no interaction with the Shimada family. You will need to know nothing about them, you will not even have to look upon the castle, and you will have a fine five-day vacation in a beautiful city.” Hanzo says. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to pack.”

McCree tilts his chin up, gesturing to the room behind Hanzo. “From the looks of it, you’re already done. _Amigo_.”

Not knowing what else to do, Hanzo slams the door shut as he feels his cheeks and ears begin to burn. Through the door, he eventually hears McCree’s spurs clinking as he walks away.

As Hanzo pushes himself away from the door to zip up his bag, his mind runs a mantra of _I hate that cowboy. I hate that cowboy. I hate that cowboy._

He hefts the bag onto the bed and takes a last look around his room. There is not much to miss. He picks up his bag and turns to leave- but after a moment’s thought he turns back and takes the plant from the dresser.

He turns back again when he stands in the doorway, running through his mental packing list. With one final glance around, he heads into the hallway, stopping at a door two down from his own.

He sets his bag down and knocks a few times, hearing a “Just a minute!” from the other side.

Lúcio opens the door, his wet hair dripping onto the towel draped over his bright green t-shirt. “Sorry, man, we just finished up the game. You should’ve come! We coulda used an extra set of legs.”

“I had much to do. My apologies."

Lúcio glances down at the bag on the ground and his grin fades.

“Right. Yeah, I saw the email. You headin’ out, man?”

“Soon, yes. I just wanted to ask-” Hanzo clears his throat, realizing now how silly his request sounds. “I do not know how long I will be gone, and I will not be around to water-“

“Oh, yeah, I can take care of your plant!” Lúcio perks up immediately. “How often does he need water? Does he like sunlight?”

Hanzo hands him the plant, already feeling a sense of relief at Lúcio’s enthusiasm. “Indirect sunlight, please. It should need small amounts of water every two or three days.”

Lúcio runs a finger along one of its dark green leaves. “Aw, he’s a cute little fella! I can’t wait, I’ll take good care of him.”

“Thank you. I truly appreciate it,” Hanzo says, nodding slightly.

He bends down to pick up his bag when Lúcio puts a hand on his shoulder. Lúcio pauses, seemingly collecting his words.

“Look, Hanzo, I’m really sorry for your loss. And when you get back, if you… need to talk, I’m here for you.” He gives Hanzo’s shoulder a reassuring pat, and Hanzo returns it with a smile and an understanding nod.

“Thank you for your concern. But I must be on my way.”

“Yeah, safe travels, man.”

Hanzo hefts the strap onto his shoulder and starts down the hallway.

* * *

 

It is about halfway through the flight from Gibraltar to Incheon when Genji confronts Hanzo.

The two had been conversing intermittently in Japanese for the better part of the six hours that they had been in the air, while Jesse had quickly fallen into a doze where he sat across the aisle, tilting his hat down over his eyes.

They talk about everything from shared childhood memories to rehearsing the names of relatives to listing things they wanted to eat before returning, but Genji has a more pressing question.

“Why are you so hostile towards Agent McCree?”

The question catches Hanzo off-guard, and his mind struggles to switch gears from trying to remember the name of the old ramen shop near Shimada Castle to suddenly trying to comprehend this blunt, personal question.

“Why do you ask that?”

“It’s clear you dislike him.”

“Do I have to like everybody?”

“But, Hanzo, you _dis_ like him.”

Hanzo slumps back into the cushioned seat and casts a sidelong glance at McCree, instinctively checking to see if he could somehow hear their conversation, although the dimmed cabin lights and the darkness outside the plane prevented him from seeing much beyond the cowboy’s rough silhouette. Hanzo reminds himself that even if McCree was awake, their conversation would be indecipherable to him.

“Genji, he has no place here. These are our family affairs, we should be the ones to resolve this.”

“And that’s it?”

“What?”

“That he is in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Essentially, I suppose.”

Without warning, Genji slaps Hanzo on the arm, and he refrains from reminding his brother that his metal arms hurt more than human ones do as he winces.

“Bullshit.”

Hanzo’s mouth moves, but doesn’t let him speak. Genji continues in the meantime.

“You have been nothing but rude to Jesse ever since you came to the Watchpoint. Don’t think I don’t notice- no ‘hello’s, no waves or smiles- you leave the room every time he is in it! Was there an incident? Did he do something to you?”

Hanzo holds his tongue- how do you tell someone that you dislike them on principle?

“I leave the room when he is around because I am afraid of dying of secondhand smoke. My lungs are not as spry as they once were.” Hanzo gives a fake cough as he says this, remembering how much Genji likes to tease him for his age, and hoping to bait him into a different topic.

Genji is having none of it.

“So, you dislike him because he smokes? You smoked once upon a time.”

“But I did not smoke these cheap, tacky—“

“Ah! You dislike him because he’s cheap and tacky!”

“No!” Hanzo’s response is too immediate.

Genji looks at him, the now-dimmed green visor glowing as accusingly as a motionless face mask can. He knows. Hanzo knows he knows.

“…Yes.”

Genji sighs and puts a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Jesse is a good man, and I have known him for many years. He is a capable man and a good agent, and I wouldn’t want anyone else watching my back.”

Hanzo rubs a hand over his face wearily. “Genji, this is family business. I don’t want-“

“-I don’t want your pettiness to ruin this for all of us.” Genji’s voice takes on a hard edge. “We must trust Agent McCree with our lives if we are to make it through this.”

A silence passes between the two brothers as Genji repositions himself to lean back into the seat. A short huff of breath from the sleeping McCree across the aisle, as he turns over to his other side.

“I mean, I know he’s not your type, but-” is all that Genji manages to get out before taking a light punch to the shoulder from Hanzo, who is rolling his eyes.

“Asshole.”

“Hey, I respect your preferences! I’m just keeping an eye out for you- y’know, I have to be the best wingman I can be!” Genji gives Hanzo a playful shove. “You’re not getting any younger, Hanzo.”

They both laugh, and the tension, the question, and the problem is forgotten as they settle in to try to catch some sleep before landing.

* * *

 

When the three arrive at Incheon, McCree ducks into the bathroom quickly to make his wardrobe changes. When he returns, he is wearing a red flannel button-up and worn-down jeans, with a large camera hanging around his neck.

“Are you seriously going to keep those on?” Hanzo asks, gesturing to the hat and spurs that he still wears as they walk through the terminal to their new gate.

“Of course! Don’t worry about it none. My cover is ‘American Tourist,’ and well,” McCree tips his hat in Hanzo’s direction, “I gotta look the part.”

Hanzo does his best not to roll his eyes.

“There will likely be a greeter waiting for us coming out of the terminal, so it would be unwise for you to remain near us,” Hanzo says as he hands McCree his boarding pass.

“Yeah, yeah, I ain’t a kid. I can fly solo.”

At that moment, the PA comes on to announce the start of boarding.

Genji gives McCree a firm handshake, and Hanzo gives the smallest polite nod. The two head up the ramp to board, and McCree waits a few moments, and then follows after.

* * *

 

This two-hour flight is nothing like the twelve-hour trek from Gibraltar.

When the plane takes off, Hanzo feels his heart drop into his gut as the sudden realization of his circumstance hits him. Every minute, every second brings him closer to the den of dragons, the ancestral home that, for years, he has only ever returned to as an intruder.

He feels slightly sick, and he screws his eyes shut to try and center himself, to shut out the sudden, nauseating flood of emotions and anxieties.

As he shuts himself into the darkness, he suddenly feels cold metal on his hand as Genji reaches over to hold it.

It doesn’t help.

* * *

 

The suited men holding the white cards that say “Shimada” in neatly printed Japanese have a neutral expression that doesn’t do any favors for Hanzo’s queasiness.

One of the men grunts out a short greeting, and Hanzo nods in acknowledgement. For a moment, there is an awkward tension as Hanzo and Genji stand with their luggage, unsure of how to proceed bridging this seemingly endless gap between them and their estranged family.

But almost as quickly, there is a shout from behind the line of hired muscle.

“Hey, are they here?” The shout gets closer. “Get out of my way!”

A slender Japanese man with slicked back hair, dressed in a black suit and tie, pushes through the line, his eyes widening as he looks upon the two brothers.

Hanzo feels the anxiety leave his body as a flicker of recognition flashes across his face. A split second, and he feels himself break into a huge grin.

Genji says it before he can- “Shin, is that you?”

Instead of responding, the man rushes forward to pull the two into a hug. “Hanzo, Genji! The family is whole once again!”

He pulls back from the hug and motions for the other suited men to pick up their bags, and then loops his arms around the brothers’ necks, starting to turn and walk to the doors leading out of the airport.

“Pull the car around, Masao,” Shin says, pressing a finger to his earpiece.

“I see you’ve moved up,” Genji says.

“Oh yeah, ever since the two of you left I’ve been taking on all kinds of responsibilities. Now I’m head of security, financial advisor, head of public relations, ombudsperson, occasional chauffeur…”

Shin’s voice fades to the back of Hanzo’s mind as he catches, out of the corner of his eye, a man in a red flannel shirt, far down the walkway.

The cowboy is stooped over his bag as he swiftly reassembles his Peacekeeper, and when he stands up he meets Hanzo’s gaze for a fleeting moment. He pauses, before flashing his signature smirk and tipping his hat slightly.

Then he turns, and vanishes amid the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Many, many thanks to ChaosandMayhem (who i didn't know had an AO3 account, lol), the greatest beta the world over  
> -Shimada Castle incoming! Hold onto your hats!  
> -Thanks for reading, y'all! I really appreciate it <3


	3. Wake

As he stands in the foyer of Shimada Castle, Hanzo feels a swell of emotion rise in his chest.

Of course, he had still returned here many times after his exile, but always as an intruder, stealing his way in like a thief in the night. To stand there in broad daylight, as an honored guest once more in his ancestral home, with his brother by his side, feels surreal to say the least.

He takes a step further in, and has to swallow down the lump in his throat as his eyes roam over the hall, with its spotless floor, the dragon mural high up on the far wall, and the kanji banners, pristine save for the gash in the corner of the largest one, left untouched for years as a reminder of the events that had transpired there.

In Hanzo’s memory, there was once a sword stand underneath that banner, underneath the ever-watchful eyes of the blue and green dragons of the mural. But today the stand with its twin katanas, one wrapped in blue and one in green, is gone. In its place is a dark casket, open but empty.

Hanzo turns to Genji to see his brother’s reaction, but as usual the mask betrays no emotion.

Genji turns to the door behind them, hearing quiet footsteps that even Hanzo could not detect as Shin strides up, effortlessly professional in his demeanor, holding his position as if he was someone born into it.

“Your rooms have been prepared,” he says, flashing an easy smile. “But, of course, you’re free to…”

He trails off as he sees what the brothers had been looking at, and the smile drops slowly. Swallowing hard, he walks up to fill the space in between them, his eyes traveling to the open casket. The silence hangs heavy between the three.

“How did he pass?” Hanzo asks eventually.

Shin wipes his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Peacefully. In his sleep.”

Hanzo nods.

“His body is being prepared for the ceremony tomorrow. He should be arriving here in the morning.” Shin continues.

“And what of Haru?” Genji asks, turning to him.

“He is here. He will probably come to greet you personally before the night is up, but, you understand, there is much official business that needs doing.”

“Of course.”

They stand, looking at the empty casket for a few more moments before Genji bursts into laughter. Hanzo looks at him in mild annoyance, and Shin in curiosity.

Genji puts a hand to his forehead, and as he continues it becomes clear that his laughter is not mirthful in nature. “Shin, what happened to you? It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Shin replies with a small, sad chuckle. “Well, I’m not your playmate anymore. I had to step up when the two of you left. I had to grow up. We all did.”

Hanzo places a hand on Shin’s shoulder. “I never had the chance to tell you before, but thank you. Sincerely.”

“For what?”

Hanzo looks into the dark brown eyes of his former bodyguard, his former servant, and sees the faintest lines beginning to form at the corners of them. He notices the slight stiffness in his movements, as if walking was a chore. Shin had always seemed timeless, but Hanzo silently reminds himself that the man is turning thirty-six in the coming spring.

“For everything. I never truly appreciated you, but…” He swallows hard with the realization that this might very well be his last chance to say this, that there is no telling what could happen in the coming week. “… You were my first friend. My only friend, in those days.”

Shin pauses for a moment, genuinely touched, and after a moment he returns the gesture, putting his hand on Hanzo’s shoulder.

“I still serve you, Hanzo Shimada. Above any other.”

* * *

 

Jesse McCree had lied to Hanzo about one thing; Hanamura had definitely, completely, one-hundred percent been his op.

But back then, he had been nothing. Not even Agent McCree- he had been Agent #342, just a scraggly kid picked up from the Deadlock Gang. So he hadn’t lied about not knowing Akio- all the information he had been given was on a strictly need-to-know basis.

And, of course, when his job was interrupting arms deals it put family politics squarely out of need-to-know territory.

He twirls his unlit cigarillo in his fingers as his eyes trail lazily over the passing landscape outside the window of the taxi. Buildings brandishing bright neon signs flash by, accompanied by the more traditional building styles of Old Hanamura. It’s a strange dynamic to see- the old and the new, the traditional and the modern, learning to coexist.

And everywhere, _everywhere_ , the rows and rows of cherry trees, their yellow-orange leaves scattered around them like the freshly shed feathers of a phoenix just before its time. A faint memory calls to him, a deep rumbling voice from a conversation once had and long forgotten-

_“A small village on top of a hill. There are cherry blossoms in the spring.”_

His lips curl into a small smile. Funny to think that there was once a time when the archer spoke to him, when his words would be received with anything other than a sneer, or merely a disapproving look.

The cab turns a corner and the side that McCree sits on is suddenly facing a large wall, a dragon motif emblazoned on the side. Tipping the brim of his hat up, he leans closer to the window, trying to get a look at the building that rises high above the wall.

The main castle is impressive, certainly, but of even more interest is the metal tower behind it, almost completely obscured by moss and vines, looking for the most part decrepit and unused. But, as McCree watches it, a faint blip of red light appears at the top, only to disappear just as quickly.

His driver speaks for the first time since his pickup. “You are a tourist, right?”

“Yes,” McCree replies almost absentmindedly.

“That is Shimada Castle. The ancestral home of the powerful Shimada Clan. It is not open to the public, but still an impressive sight from behind the wall.”

_“I miss it dearly.”_

“Huh.” McCree sticks the cigarillo in his mouth with a sidelong glance at the “No Smoking” sign bolted into the back of the passenger seat.

Then the wall and the castle is gone, and he counts- one block, two blocks, three blocks…

“Right here’s fine,” he says, and the cab slows to a stop.

He counts out the money and hands it to the man with a placating smile, and exits the cab with his bag hefted onto his shoulder.

The cab drives off and McCree fumbles around for his lighter.

* * *

 

Haru doesn’t appear until nightfall, but, true to his word, he does show up.

Hanzo is taken aback by his cousin’s appearance- his hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail, is streaked with gray; his face marked with fine lines around the corners of his mouth and between his brows. He is dressed in all black, looking both business-like and like a mourner.

He enters the grand dining room flanked by two guards, to whom he motions to wait at the door. As they make their leave, Hanzo stands to properly greet his cousin. Shin and Genji rise as Haru steps forward to give Hanzo a firm handshake.

“You look well, Hanzo,” he says, patting him on the arm lightly with his free hand.

“It has been too long.”

Haru releases him and turns to offer the same formality to Genji. “I apologize for the… muscle. The days following the death of a clan patriarch are the most dangerous,” he says as he grasps Genji’s hand. “I’m sure the two of you know this well.”

“Indeed.” Even with his distorted voice, the stiffness behind Genji’s reply is clear.

Haru releases Genji’s hand and gives Shin a curt nod. “I wish I could have greeted you sooner- but, you understand, there is much to do before tomorrow. Distant relations attempting to claim inheritance, administrational paperwork, and, of course, preparations for the ceremony.”

“But of course,” Genji says.

“I do have one question, Haru,” Hanzo interjects. “Why invite us back to Hanamura?”

Haru walks over to the table, which still has the contents of the trio’s half-eaten meal, and pours himself some sake from the opened bottle in the center.

“Why shouldn’t I?” He takes a drink and turns back to them. “My father held no ill will against the two of you personally, but clan politics forced him to not merely remove you from power, but exile you entirely. You must have noticed that through all these years, you were never hunted by the clan. Just kept at bay.”

“Do these politics not still apply?” Hanzo asks as he picks his sake up from the table.

Haru silently takes a drink before turning to Hanzo with a smile.

“They do.” He sets down his cup. “But I’m willing to take some heat in order to have the whole family here.”

Hanzo feels a lump form in his throat, and finds himself at a loss for words.

Haru reaches down to refill his cup, and starts as he realizes there is still food on the table.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to keep you from your meal!” He straightens up and gestures for the others to sit down. As they do, he seats himself at the table as well.

The tension seems to dissipate as the conversation quickly turns to the exchanging of old memories and of recent news. And as the voices of his brother, his cousin, and his former servant fill the gilded room, Hanzo feels, for the first time in a long time, that he is finally home.

* * *

 

When the bell perched on the edge of the front door chimes, McCree straightens to his full height, scanning the small convenience store to make sure that he is the only patron. The shelves are short enough for him to see over easily, and the security monitor barely visible behind the counter confirms it.

He pulls open the door of the cooler next to him and picks out a 6-pack of Corona, sauntering up to the counter with it.

He chews on his cigarillo as he waits for the elderly clerk to make his way over from the shelf that he had been straightening. The counter is cluttered, covered in faded advertisements for old cigarette brands and cardboard boxes full of gum packs for sale.

His eyes travel to the shelf behind the counter, which holds a ceramic lucky cat, a dusty silk plant, and, the object of his interest, an old AM/FM radio, its antenna folded and tucked away. A relic from a time long passed.

The old man shuffles up to the counter, peering over his glasses at the pack of beer, and then at Jesse. He punches the numbers into the register, and when the total comes up on the little LCD display, Jesse pulls his wallet out of his pocket and sets it on the counter, leaning over it and looking once over his shoulder at the store entrance.

He looks back, tips his hat up with a finger, and points at the radio.

“How much for the antique?”

* * *

 

The light flicks on, revealing Jesse’s mostly untouched hotel room. The accommodations are nice- a full-size bed, a small couch, a painting of a cherry tree hung on the wall above a small TV.

He sets the old radio on the table in front of the couch and opens the black minifridge, separating a beer from the case and putting the rest inside. He pulls a bottle opener from his pocket and pops the top, letting the cap bounce onto the floor.

He plops down onto the couch, taking a gulp of the Corona as he squints at the radio on the table in front of him.

He leans forward to put the bottle on the table, and stays there with his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded, staring at the radio for a few moments.

He reaches for it and pulls it into his lap, turning it over to inspect it. It’s ancient, for sure, but with the proper care it should do the job.

He sets it back on the table and reaches for the multitool in his pocket, unscrewing the back panel and poking at the dusty wires inside with a gloved hand. He puts his metal hand over his nose in preparation, and blows on the inner paneling, still recoiling from the puff of dust that is stirred up.

He waves away the air in front of him and leans closer, examining the time-weathered wiring and corroded metal with a sigh. Nothing like fixing an engine, but it’s gonna be a long night.

* * *

 

Three beers and two hardware store trips later, the radio flickers to life. He peels off the brown leather glove and tosses it on the table, which is now covered in various wire clippings, screws, and tools. He wipes his forehead with his bare hand, grabbing his half-empty bottle with the other one and leaning back into the couch with an exhausted huff.

He tips the bottle back and takes a long drink, closing his eyes to the nearly relaxing sound of radio static. He has to force himself to get up from his slouching position, and he reaches forward to start fiddling with the tuner.

Static, static, static, and then- a voice. Young, Japanese. McCree listens intently, hand still on the tuning knob.

And then music. It’s old, Elvis Presley.

_Some hipster kid tryin’ to revive radio._

Jesse’s tempted to stop and listen as the King croons, _“I’ve been so lonely, baby, I’ve been so lonely. I’ve been so lonely, I could d—“_

He keeps seeking.

More static, until… a voice. No, _voices_.

He turns up the volume- two people, speaking in an English-Japanese pidgin. Two different sound qualities. An open voice channel.

He leans back again and takes another swig.

“Where is he?”

“Finishing up his round. It’s gonna be two minutes.”

“And Haru?”

“He’s with the brothers.”

“Hey, hey, I’m here, I’m coming up to the tower.”

“That was fast. Thought you were occupied.”

“Porky came early to relieve me.”

“Of course he came early. Your shift was at the dining hall.”

“You’re one to talk, Ken. Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m on the wall. I can talk, but I can’t leave.” Ken, the first voice, replies.

“Ito, get your ass over here so we can cut down a channel,” says the second voice.

“I’m comin’, Ace, geez,” Ito, the third voice, says.

“Quit callin’ me Ace,” says Ace.

The static from the third channel cuts out, and Ito’s voice comes over Ace’s channel. “I’m here, give us the shakedown.”

“Okay, we’re gonna have standard coverage for the funeral, and extra wall security for the wake,” Ace says. “None of us goes in during the wake, and we don’t touch the Shimada brothers.”

At the mention of “Shimada,” McCree turns the volume up further, leaning in closer.

“I thought-“

“Change of plans. They’re going to do the funeral and the wake, and right after the burial we strike.”

Jesse feels his blood run cold. His grip tightens on the bottle.

“Right after the burial?”

“Maybe not right after. But the brothers don’t get a chance to escape,” Ace says. “The staff doing the regular guard shift will be doing most of the work, but we may need reinforcements. They’re Shimadas. They’re not going down without a fight.”

“And where will you be during all this?” Ken asks.

“Up here in the tower.”

Ken and Ito scoff. “Typical.”

“I’ll be managing the radio channels, and I’ll have bird’s-eye if anything goes wrong.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So, who’s on the rotation and who’s on standby?” Ito asks.

“I don’t have the schedule. You’ll have to ask Shin when he gets back.”

“Okay, I’ll-“ Ken says, “Oh, wait. I’m getting tapped out.”

“No, don’t worry about it. That’s all you needed to know.”

“All right, then I’m getting some ramen. I’m freezing my ass off, man.”

“Hey, I’ll join you.”

“Cool. Little shop on the corner, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you there.”

Both channels cut out and the radio static resumes.

McCree sits on the couch, staring blankly at the radio with a vice grip on his Corona. He swallows hard against a lump in his throat.

“Motherfucker.”

* * *

 

When the morning comes, gray and solemn, it finds Hanzo examining himself in the mirror in his guest room, straightening his silk black tie and brushing at stray hairs on his slacks. His hair is tied up- not with its usual gold sash, but with a discreet black elastic. He runs a hand over his forehead and takes a step back to look at the room.

He’s seen this room before, although it is much more ornately decorated than the last time he had been in here. Akio, as it seemed, had put an emphasis on hospitality during his rule.

A gilded four-poster bed takes up the majority of the room, covered in a gold silk duvet and assorted matching pillows. A deep red, high-pile rug smothers the dark hardwood around and under the bed, and thick red-and-gold curtains drape over the tall windows. An artist’s rendition of the clan sigil, the twin-dragon ouroboros, hangs proudly above a tall gilded dresser.

The piercing gaze of the blue dragon stares down at Hanzo almost accusingly as he stands in his black suit, preparing to mourn the man who bore the mantle meant for him.

Three loud knocks at the door bring Hanzo’s attention back to the present. Shin’s voice calls out from the other side.

“Hanzo?”

Hanzo quickly glances at his reflection again before striding over to the door and opening it.

Shin steps through, in a black suit similar to the one he had been wearing the day before.

“They just brought Akio in. Thought you should know.”

Hanzo nods. “Thank you.” He pulls a wad of Japanese yen out of his pocket. “I forgot to ask- do you have any condolence envelopes? They do not sell such things overseas.”

Shin takes the money out of his hand and places it back in Hanzo’s pocket, patting it lightly. “Don’t worry about condolence money. You’re family, Hanzo.”

Family. A word that hasn’t applied to him in years.

It’s all he can think about throughout the ceremony, the chanting from the old priest fading to the back of his mind as he watches Genji, wearing his black suit over his metal body, walk up to the urn in the center of the room and offer his incense.

The ceremony is held in the same hall that the casket had been displayed in, and as Hanzo rises from his seat to offer his incense, his footsteps feel heavy on the hard wood floor. Of all the other places in Shimada Castle, it had been here that he had revisited over the years, lighting his own incense offering to a brother he had thought long gone.

He finishes his walk to the urn in front of the casket, and gives his offering with the priest chanting in his ear. He turns to make his walk back, and looks out over the rows of seats in front of him, the guests giving offering to the second urn behind the family.

He walks back to his seat next to Genji, and the single sentence comes back to him, insistent on being remembered-

_“You’re family, Hanzo.”_

* * *

 

A few lanterns set out around the floor cast an orange glow into the otherwise dark room. The folding chairs from the ceremony had all been pushed to the sides, and from where Hanzo sits against the wall on the right side of the casket, he can see the full moon casting its white glow from a cloudless sky, paving a white square from the wide, open doorway to the hall.

Cicadas chirp their cacophonous cadence from the cherry trees outside, and the sound falls over the castle like a blanket.

Shin sits next to him, his black silk tie loosened and askew, his suit jacket crumpled on the floor. He leans back against the wall with a sigh, turning to Genji as he sits against the adjacent railing.

He lets out a tired laugh. “And, Genji, do you remember when-” He laughs again before he can finish the sentence, “-When you crashed the motorcycle?”

Genji groans and hangs his head as Hanzo’s deep and rumbling laugh echoes through the hall. Haru’s chuckles join from where he sits on the other side of the casket, mostly hidden from view.

“Mr. Shimada was furious,” he says. “I thought he was gonna have you thrown out, for sure.”

“So did I,” Genji responds, putting a hand to where his forehead would be.

Hanzo puts a hand to his side, sore from a night of stories and laughter, and wipes away the moisture at the corner of his eye. “What even happened? How did you crash it?”

“Ugh. Well, first of all, it wasn’t completely my fault.”

“Sure.”

“It was me and Daiki-“

“-Daiki was there?”

“Yeah, Daiki was there. It was right before he left for America, actually. It was me, Daiki, and Masa- we were doing a pub crawl to give him a good sendoff-“

“Oh, God,” Haru says, and the sound of skin hitting skin gives the impression that he had just slapped his forehead.

“We got about halfway to the castle,” Genji continues, ignoring the interjection, “when Daiki runs, no joke, just _runs_ full sprint into the nearest bush.”

This starts a fresh round of uproarious laughter as Genji pantomimes the action.

“Yeah, he threw up real bad. He was not looking good. And he’s like, ‘Genji, I can’t keep going. I have to go home,’ and, of course, Masa and I are still going strong, so what do I do? I called Shin-“

“Whoa. You did _not_ call me that night.”

“I _tried_ to call Shin. I ended up accidentally calling your dad,” Genji says as he points at Haru, prompting another round of laughter.

“Oh my God, I remember that,” Haru wheezes out.

“He was furious. ‘Genji Shimada? Is this Genji Shimada? Where the fuck is my son, you bastard? Don’t you know he has a flight early tomorrow, you better not be out drinking, you better have Daiki home right now’ this and that. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, I parked my bike back at the castle, and Daiki was in no state to move, so what did I do?”

“Oh my God, you ran back to the castle,” Hanzo says.

“I ran back to the castle!” The other three are laughing so hard they’re nearly in tears. “It seemed like a good plan at the time! Get the bike, get Daiki, zoom right back, I mean, Masa can take care of herself, right?”

“Genji, you idiot,” Hanzo wheezes through fits of laughter.

“So I get the bike, I’m zooming away, I did _not_ realize how drunk I was. Not two minutes out of the gate…” He makes a smacking motion with his hands.

All four start laughing again, although none of them had ever truly stopped. One by one, they regain their composure.

“Y’know, I was more scared of your dad than I was of mine.” Genji tilts his head up to look at the casket. “Your old man sure had a way about him.”

“Yeah, he did.” Haru chews on his lip thoughtfully, then stands up. His black tie is undone, and his white dress shirt is pushed up to his elbows. “I’m gonna get a snack. Be right back.”

As he disappears around the corner, Shin puts a finger to his earpiece. “Haru’s getting a refreshment. General status report.”

He listens intently for a bit, then pulls the earpiece out of his ear. He swallows hard and turns to look at Hanzo.

“I don’t have much time, but…” Shin starts, and as he talks his eyes flick constantly to the wide entrance to the hall. “There is something you need to know.”

“What is it?” As Hanzo speaks the words, he feels a weight settle uncomfortably in his stomach.

Shin looks to Genji, to the entrance, and then back to Hanzo. “It was… a mistake for you to come here.”

“What? Why? I thought you wanted us back here. You said we were family.” Hanzo swallows hard. He knows what Shin will tell him, despite his vehement denial.

“Hanzo.” Shin puts his hand on his shoulder. “You knew the risks when you came here. Of that I have no doubt. He is going to strike after the burial.”

Hanzo tries to pull away, his breath starting to quicken and his throat starting to constrict. “No. No, Shin…”

Shin responds by placing his free hand on Hanzo’s other shoulder and roughly turning him to face him. “Remember. I still serve you, Hanzo Shimada. Above all else.”

Genji speaks up from where he sits. “Hanzo, you knew this was coming. The whole time we’ve been here, everything so far, he’s been trying to lower your guard.”

Shin gives him a gentle squeeze.

“Haru will not let you leave this place alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -awwww yiss  
> -My eternal thanks to ChaosandMayhem, who puts up with wayyy more of my bullshit than anyone ever should  
> -I think I should say here that I am obviously taking many creative liberties with the Shimada family dynamic, so if Blizzard gives any more info on them later down the line, pls don't come after me with pitchforks  
> -Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You've got to know when to hold 'em,_   
>  _Know when to fold 'em,_   
>  _Know when to walk away,_   
>  _And know when to run._

The morning comes as a blanket of bleak, gray clouds that casts the funeral procession in a cold, hazy light.

They stand in the Shimada family burial grounds, against the wall at the back end of the Shimada estate, huddled in their coats against the seeping chill, a small crowd of black suits. About thirty members of the Shimada guard stand at attention along the wall, their expressions unreadable. Six more carry Akio’s ornate wooden casket over the readied grave, all of them equally expressionless. The same priest from the funeral stands behind the granite headstone. Shin stands to the side, his hands folded in front of him.

Hanzo and Genji exchange a glance as Haru gives the order to lower the casket. Genji’s mask betrays no emotion, but Hanzo feels the anxiety swirling in his stomach. He shifts slightly and feels Storm Bow against his back- when he had gone back to his room to get his coat, he had done his best to conceal his bow beneath the bulky material.

And now, as a single bead of sweat winds its way down his temple, he prays that it will be enough to save him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shin glance in his direction. He swallows hard and fights the urge to wipe away the sweat trickle. The entire procession is unsettlingly quiet.

He finds that he can’t even watch the ceremony, his eyes are glued to the grass beneath him, and as he hears the dull thud of the casket hitting the slightly damp earth the anxious thoughts worm their way into his consciousness- how fitting that he should die here, in the final resting place of his ancestors before him.

The priest begins reading off the prayer, and Hanzo attempts to force himself to look up, his eyes settling on the grave next to the still-open one. The headstone reads _Katsuro Shimada_. His father’s grave. He can’t help himself- his eyes wander down slightly, to where his and Genji’s names should be.

Indeed, they had been there once; now, all that remains is a scratching of exposed stone where the names had been scraped away.

Hanzo feels, all at once, a heat of anger and a sinking despair as the word that Shin had spoken to him beats around in his head, in time with his heartbeat, a mantra and a curse- “ _family.”_

_Family. Family. Family. Family._

The prayer continues. Hanzo prepares himself, going through the motion of grabbing his bow and nocking an arrow in his mind, over and over again. Even as he does so, the thoughts persist-

_It’s too late. I die where I stand. Haru will not let us leave this place alive._

“Amen.”

As soon as the word leaves the priest’s mouth, the six pallbearers reach for their guns, and the moment seems to slow to a standstill as Hanzo reaches for his bow, a moment too late.

He sees his end before him in that agonizing moment, he sees the six bullets with his name on them, sees them spiraling towards him with a fire of fury and vengeance.

He sees the fire and the smoke clouding his vision, tinting his world in swirling, consuming black and red. He feels it climbing up his body, threatening to choke him out, and then, a voice. In his ear- no, in his _mind,_ creeping inside of him and escalating in volume, turning into a horrific cacophony-

_Death without honor. Death without honor. Death without—_

And then, before Hanzo’s nightmarish visions can come to pass, six deafening gunshots ring out in a staccato, uniform rhythm, echoing off of the high stone walls.

Hanzo’s blood freezes as his arm mechanically finishes the movement of pulling out his bow, and he tenses as he waits for the inevitable.

But the inevitable never comes.

The six men who had drawn their guns crumple to the floor, and Hanzo realizes that those six gunshots were not meant for him.

The remaining guards are just as puzzled, and after a moment’s surprised hesitation, they reach for their guns as well, just as another round of gunshots ring out and another six fall to the ground.

“There! On the wall!” one guard calls out, pointing up at the wall behind them.

Hanzo turns slowly, still unable to believe that he is not dead where he stands, and tilts his head up, squinting at the figure standing at the top of the wall.

A glint of gold. A brown hat with a wide brim. A tattered red serape, fluttering in the wind.

The cowboy.

A gunshot pulls him out of his trance, and he looks around, getting a quick grasp of his situation. Genji beside him, reaching behind his back to pull out his hidden katana. Haru and the rest of the guard, their gazes still shifted to McCree on the wall. Shin looking up as well, then looking back down, locking eyes with Hanzo. Mouthing, _“Go.”_

Hanzo nods, and as he turns to Genji he hears a pattering of gunshots. Four, maybe five. No rhythm. Not from Peacekeeper.

Genji nods back at Hanzo and starts running back through the grounds, pulling his blade out fully. Hanzo follows, pulling an arrow out from the quiver hidden underneath the coat.

“Hey! The brothers are your _fucking_ priority!” Haru’s voice rings out among the unfolding chaos, followed by six uniform shots.

Hanzo doesn’t dare look back as he nocks an arrow, his eyes locked on Genji’s glowing green form in front of him. He hears shouts behind him-

“Ignore the cowboy!”

“Get the Shimadas!”

“Go, go, go!”

Swallowing hard, Hanzo whirls around, backpedaling as he draws back his bowstring. He makes a quick assessment- Haru, still by the grave, shouting orders furiously. Shin, also still by the wall, shouting into his earpiece. Three or four of the guard running after him and Genji, and the remaining ten or so getting ready to follow suit. McCree still on the wall, firing into the crowd but not riling as much of a response.

Hanzo understands. He’s had his help.

Still backpedaling, he takes his aim at one of the guards rushing towards him, and forces himself to clear his mind. The cacophony of shouts and gunfire muffles for a precious second, and Hanzo inhales sharply- then releases the arrow with his outbreath.

The guard doesn’t even make a sound as the arrow buries itself in his forehead, and he slumps to the ground. The moment is gone, and as the whirlwind of sound and chaos resumes Hanzo turns around and keeps running, pulling another arrow out and nocking it.

* * *

 

“Up here, ya jackasses!”

McCree fans another six bullets down into the gardens, knowing that at this point none of them will hit. The last of the guard that had been firing back up at him turn to give chase to the Shimada brothers, and he squints down at the overhang that conceals the last two- the ones who had been giving orders.

He cracks his back and tilts his hat up with a finger.

_Party time, then._

He makes his way down the scaffolding on the outside that had allowed him to scale the wall, and when his boots hit the ground he stows Peacekeeper in its holster. He looks around the street quickly, and, finding it empty, walks over to a modest motorcycle with a small sidecar that had been parked along the sidewalk.

He swings a leg over it, whistling the Elvis ballad he had heard on the radio the night before. He pops the ignition open and gets to work on the wires.

_Just take a walk down Lonely Street to Heartbreak Hotel—_

The engine sputters to life, and McCree lets out a short cackle of delight as he speeds away, following the length of the wall to the front entrance to the grounds.

There are guards everywhere. Guards on the wall, guards scattered on the ground, guards around the large, ornate bell that hangs under the gazebo in the middle of the square. Hanzo and Genji come running, with only a few of the original pursuers still on their tail, as the full guard at the entrance draw their weapons, their attention completely devoted to their quarry.

Jesse stops the motorcycle and plants one boot on the floor, drawing his revolver with the other. He takes aim, taking advantage of his element of surprise, and… _bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam._

Six guards fall where they stand, killed instantly with the headshot, and the remaining ones turn to him, completely caught off-guard and momentarily distracted. As they do, another one falls with an arrow in his neck, and another two slain by Genji’s shurikens.

McCree whistles loudly to get the brothers’ attention. He reloads and takes another six shots at the line of guards, and each finds its mark. He watches as Hanzo pulls an arrow and nocks it- as he releases it, the arrow splits into a swarm of smaller ones, the glowing blue bolts ricocheting off of the walls and sinking into the bulk of where the guards are gathered.

Screams of pain fill the courtyard as most of them clutch whatever had been struck by the scatter arrow- not dead, but definitely slowed.

As the brothers get closer, Jesse notices that Hanzo’s wearing a suit rather than his usual obi or even the simple dress shirt he had seen him wear in the airport.

_Looks good on him,_ he muses as he reloads Peacekeeper and jams it into its holster at the brothers’ approach.

* * *

 

As Hanzo slides another arrow into his bow, he watches as Genji speeds ahead and vaults into the sidecar, a second before he gets there. He’s stopped momentarily, eyes shifting quickly from McCree on the seat to Genji on the side, and the hesitation is clearly readable, for the cowboy revs the engine impatiently.

“Get _on,_ dammit!”

Hanzo swallows hard, and swings a leg over the seat, clearing his throat as he is forced uncomfortably close to McCree. He leans back as far as he can manage, as the strong scent of tobacco and beer hits him.

“You, uh… might wanna hold on, darlin’,” McCree says, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“Do not call me ‘darlin’. And I will be fine.”

McCree shrugs, turning back to stare down the road. “S’Your funeral.”

The motorcycle lurches forward, and Hanzo nearly falls off- luckily for him, McCree brakes just as quickly, the momentum forcing Hanzo to flop forward onto him. With a flash of annoyance, he realizes that his face is buried into the tattered red serape- he only comes up to the man’s shoulder.

He hears McCree snicker as he wraps his arms around his waist with a growl of reluctance.

A gunshot goes off behind him, and he turns to see a Shimada guard stumbling out of the entrance, one hand clutching his bloodstained side and the other holding his handgun out, elbow locked and arm shaking. The grating sound of metal, and the man slumps to the sidewalk with a shuriken buried in his throat.

The motorcycle starts forward again, and he instinctively holds a little tighter as the force threatens to rip him off of the bike- as he does, he realizes that McCree’s waist has no give to it.

The red-and-orange cherry trees pass by as the bike picks up speed, and the fleeting image of McCree’s metal chestplate flashes across his mind. Another gunshot rings out through the empty street, and Hanzo looks over his shoulder to see another suited guard sprinting down the sidewalk, gun in hand. Genji brings up his blade to deflect the bullet, and the man crumples at the knee, screaming in pain.

Just as he goes down, however, a motorcycle comes around the corner, and a man leans out from behind the driver, firing his handgun at them.

Genji brings up his blade to deflect, and Hanzo raises the bow that he still clutches in his left hand. Swallowing hard, he shakily tries to lift his right hand, which clutches his drawn arrow, from McCree’s waist, trying to keep his balance on the seat as the bike races forward.

The bike swerves slightly, and Hanzo reels forward, nearly tumbling off of the seat. His right arm desperately reaches out for McCree’s waist again, and finds purchase. Another gunshot rings out as his heart pounds furiously, still in shock from the close encounter.

“Shit,” he breathes, steeling himself for another attempt.

McCree must have heard him, because his metal hand reaches back to clutch the side of Hanzo’s suit jacket. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his right hand still on the handlebar.

“Don’t worry. I gotcha.”

Hanzo takes a deep breath and turns around to try again, this time raising both his bow and arrow to fire as McCree’s iron grip keeps him in the seat. He draws back the string and the sound of the gunshots, the motion of the bike, and the wind whizzing past him freezes as his vision closes around the point of his arrow, set on the forehead of the black-suited driver.

He breathes in sharply, then… changes his mind.

The arrow sinks into the front tire of the motorcycle, sending it flipping over and sending both driver and rider flying into the air. They fall to the street, injured but alive.

Hanzo allows himself a smile before a black sedan with tinted windows pulls out of a side street. He pulls out another arrow as the passenger window rolls down and a man leans out of it, firing his gun at them. He draws his string back and takes aim at the shadow of a man in the driver’s seat, inhales, and-

The bike lilts sharply to the right, and Hanzo’s arrow goes splintering off the side of one of the shops lining the street. As the bike turns the corner, he notices a car waiting at the intersection. The town is waking up.

“Sorry,” McCree calls out as the bike rebalances.

“It is fine,” Hanzo replies, nocking another arrow and taking aim at the sedan, which rounds the corner in pursuit.

He inhales, and lets the arrow fly.

It strikes true, piercing the glass of the windshield where the driver sits, and the car spins out of control. As it does, however, the shooter on the passenger side gets another shot at the group- and this one strikes true, as well.

Shooting pain laces through Hanzo’s right hand, and he drops the arrow he had just drawn as he feels a scream rip itself from his throat. Warm blood trickles from his hand down his arm, dribbling down to his black slacks.  

“Hanzo, you okay?” McCree asks.

"I-I've been hit," Hanzo manages to get out. "In the h-hand. I'm no use now."

He hooks his good arm around McCree’s waist, still wincing in pain, and the cowboy releases his grip, putting his both of his hands on the handlebars once more. Hanzo looks over his shoulder to see the sedan growing smaller and smaller, its front end jammed into a lightpost. The sight gives Hanzo no small satisfaction.

But the slight taste of victory quickly turns cold when a fleet of motorcycles appears around a corner- six, perhaps seven.

“McCree,” Genji calls from the sidecar, where he is already readying a set of shurikens.

“Shit, I see ‘em,” McCree’s deep voice rumbles against Hanzo’s cheek. “Hold on to yer hats.”

The bike tilts to the left sharply as McCree turns a corner into a narrower street, lined with small market booths selling flowers and trinkets. The shopkeepers, still setting up their wares, duck to the side to avoid the incoming swarm of bikes.

Hanzo looks behind them as they pass, and sees one of them get knocked to the side by one of the Shimada goons, unable to move in time.

“McCree, civilians!”

“Dammit, I know! I know!”

Hanzo can hear the beginnings of panic and frustration creeping into the cowboy’s voice, and he swallows hard. He pulls his injured hand close to his chest as McCree hooks another turn into a narrow footpath between shop stands. He looks behind him again, just in time to see one of the motorcycles slam into a tree, spilling its riders onto the pavement.

“Buckle down!” McCree yells.

Hanzo clings on as tightly as he can as McCree pulls the bike up to hop over a pile of crates in his path. He watches as the remaining bikes do the same.

“How many left?” McCree asks, his eyes fixed ahead.

“Six.”

“Fuck.”

At the end of the path he swerves back onto the main road, taking one hand off the handlebars to hold onto his hat.

“Genji,” McCree yells over his shoulder. “I can use Deadeye, but you’ll hafta take over for me.”

“Do it. I’ve got it.”

“What is that? What is Deadeye?” Hanzo asks, having to raise his voice to be heard over the wind and the occasional passing car of the slowly populating street.

His question goes unheard as McCree swings into an alleyway, still going at full speed.

“What are you doing? This is a dead end!” Hanzo yells.

“Just trust me!”

The wall at the end of the alley approaches, just as Hanzo had expected, and he tenses his body for impact. At the last second, however, McCree brakes hard, turning the bike parallel to the wall. The tires screech, burning a plume of sour smoke as it grinds to a halt.

McCree plants a boot on the ground, pulling Peacekeeper out as he does. Genji, facing the oncoming motorcycles, brings his blade up to deflect the bullets flying at them.

McCree straightens his back, extending his gun with his right hand and bringing his metal hand up, behind the back of Peacekeeper. Hanzo has seen him do this before, preparing to fan his six shots. It’s different this time, though. He feels McCree take in a deep breath, and looks up to see him squinting down at the opening of the alley, his eyes shadowed by the wide brim of his hat.

“Step right up,” he growls.

For all that preparation, it’s over in an instant.

Twelve shots echo through the alley in rapid succession, almost like machine gun fire, and the drivers, along with their riders, slump off the motorcycles, which continue on for a few more feet before going their different directions and falling over.

Hanzo barely has time to process it all before McCree slumps backwards into him, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, his eyes half-closed.

“Oh. H-hey, Hanzo,” he says deliriously.

Genji is out of the sidecar in an instant, lifting McCree off of him.

“Come on, Hanzo, help me get him in the sidecar.”

Hanzo helps as much as he can with his good arm, although Genji still does most of the assisting as McCree stumbles off of the seat. Once McCree is settled in, Genji takes the driver’s position that the cowboy had left vacant.

“Let’s get out of here before they send more,” he says as Hanzo hooks his left arm around his brother’s torso.

Genji is lean and cold compared to McCree’s warm, stocky figure. And as his strong, heady scent leaves the air around him he realizes how accustomed he had gotten to it in that short time. Genji starts the engine, bringing him back to the present situation.

“Where will we go?” he asks, as Genji eases his way out of the alley, carefully avoiding the fallen guards and scattered motorcycles.

“I’ve got a lil’ room,” McCree says from the sidecar, his words coming out slow and slurred. “Lil’ hotel, not far from here.”

Genji looks out cautiously as he meets the main road, and seeing nothing but civilian vehicles, blends into the traffic.

“Show me the way, Jesse.”

* * *

 

Hanzo watches as McCree fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening it and pulling out his card key with trembling fingers.

His strength had slowly returned on the way to the small motel, although he still leaned on Genji for support whenever he could. And, as Hanzo can now see, his dexterity will take longer to recover.

McCree leaves Genji’s side and staggers up to the door, swiping the card in the slot. It takes him three tries to get the door open, but when he finally does he stumbles in, collapsing on the couch.

“There’s a few beers left in the fridge, if you want ‘em,” he mumbles, taking his hat off and tossing it on the table.

Hanzo and Genji follow him, looking around at the modest room.

“Perhaps later. Is there a first aid kit in here?” Hanzo asks, still clutching his injured hand.

“Check, uh… check the closet.”

Genji opens the sliding closet door and reaches in. He turns back and tosses a small red case to Hanzo, who barely catches it with his non-dominant left hand.

“Hey. Watch it, asshole.”

“Sorry.”

McCree chuckles from the couch and Hanzo turns to him as he works on getting the kit open with his good hand.

“Didn’t know ya had a mouth like that on ya, Hanzo.”

Hanzo shakes his head with a smile. “Didn’t know you could shoot twelve bullets from a six-round revolver.”

McCree shifts in his seat, with the same lazy smile. “Well, that’s kind of a one-time deal.”

Hanzo gets the case open and crouches down, laying it out on the floor. He takes out a roll of bandage wrap and starts trying to find the tail. Genji steps out into the hall, turning back to the two of them from the doorway.

“You two rest up here. I’m going to dump the bike.”

McCree gives him a two-fingered salute in acknowledgement, and Genji walks out, closing the door behind him.

Hanzo picks at the end of the bandage with his fingernail to get it started, and notices the dried blood caked underneath it with a scowl. He pulls a length of bandage from the roll and starts wrapping his hand.

“How did you know to help us?” Hanzo asks, his attention mostly focused on wrapping his hand.

“Radio. Noticed your clan had an old broadcast tower, and ain’t nobody usin’ those no more.”

Hanzo looks up and sees the old radio on the table. “Huh.”

He looks back down at his hand and starts unwrapping it, not satisfied with his first try.

“I might be an old dog, but I still got a lot of tricks.” McCree drawls from the couch.

Hanzo finishes unwrapping it and tries again, scowling as his left hand proves less dexterous than his injured dominant hand. With a growl of frustration, he unwraps the hand again. He hears the couch creak as McCree gets up, and soon a shadow falls over him, blocking the warm light from the floor lamp. The heady scent fills the air around him, although it seems less pungent this time- either McCree’s temporary distance from his substances, or Hanzo’s recent proximity that allowed him to acclimate to it.

“Here. Let me.”

“I’ve got it. But thank you.”

Hanzo wraps the hand faster in an attempt to prove his competence, and does a poor job because of it. He keeps his eyes focused on his work, not daring to look up at McCree. It’s a shoddy wrap, and Hanzo knows it. Jesse knows it.

McCree eases himself down into a sitting position across from Hanzo and reaches out to take his injured hand. Hanzo recoils instinctively.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Stop bein’ so _goddamn stubborn!_ ” McCree shouts, and the suddenness of it makes Hanzo look up at him in surprise.

A silence passes between them as McCree holds his gaze, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line. His dark eyes are tired, but through the fatigue they bore into Hanzo with a piercing intensity.

Then his expression softens, and when he reaches for his hand Hanzo doesn’t pull away.

McCree’s fingers are slightly jittery, but his grip is still strong as he unwinds the bandage that Hanzo had wrapped hastily. When he reaches the end, he tears off the portion that had been used to wrap and rewrap, already slightly soiled by the dark blood that, although more slowly than before, continues to drip from the wound.

“Lookit this. You didn’t even check it or clean it.”

McCree turns Hanzo’s hand over, inspecting the wound. His touch is surprisingly tender, and Hanzo feels the slight fear slowly start to dissipate. He takes the cleaner part of the discarded bandage and wipes away some of the blood and grime around the wound, with a level of care that belies his rough appearance. He clicks his tongue and sets the dirty bandage down.

“Through and through.” He looks up to meet Hanzo’s gaze. “Lucky it ain’t still in there.”

He picks up the clean roll and starts wrapping the wound, doing a much better job with his two able hands (even with one being metal) than Hanzo could manage with his off-hand.

In the ensuing silence, Hanzo gets a cold feeling in his gut as he watches McCree carefully working the bandage around the wound. He had clearly underestimated this man, the _cowboy,_ and he knows that he owes an apology.

He struggles with the words, and prepares himself to speak no less than three times before he is finally able to do so.

“McCree.”

Jesse looks up, pausing, and Hanzo clears his throat, averting his gaze momentarily.

“I…am sorry.”

McCree laughs, not at all the response Hanzo was expecting, and resumes his work.

“Aw hell, darlin’. What for?”

Hanzo bites back his annoyance at the moniker, instead turning his eyes down to the gloved hand that currently holds his own.

“For… misjudging you.”

McCree looks back up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Naw, you don’t hafta—”

“—Yes. I have to.” Hanzo says, and the sudden steel in his voice stops McCree short. “I thought you incapable. I thought you incompetent. I took you for a fool and I took you for an idiot. And I was… wrong.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Jesse looks down with a sad chuckle, tearing off the bandage strip.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it none.” He puts the roll back in the kit and looks at Hanzo with his usual lazy half-smile. “You ain’t the first.”

Hanzo knows that the statement was meant to ease his worry, but it does quite the opposite. He swallows hard, feeling shame burning in his cheeks. He opens his mouth, about to reply, when three quick knocks at the door interrupt him.

“I got it,” McCree says, grunting as he pushes himself up onto his feet. He walks up to the door and leans forward to look through the peep-hole, his hand on the door handle. “It’s Genji,” he says as he opens the door.

Genji walks in and closes the door behind him, nodding at Hanzo and McCree in acknowledgement. McCree turns and starts to walk back to the table, and he leans down to turn on the radio.

A bit of static, and then-

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“This street’s clear.”

“Where the hell is Shin?”

At the mention of Shin, both Shimada brothers turn to the radio immediately.

Over the cacophony of other voices overlapping on the voice channel, Shin’s cuts through, surprisingly stern and authoritative.

“I’m right here. How far are you from the grounds?”

The other guards’ comments die down upon hearing their boss’s voice, and after a moment one of them answers.

“We’re ten, fifteen blocks out, sir.”

“Then come back.”

“Sir?”

“If you’re that far out, you won’t find them today. They could be hiding anywhere in the city. Our best bet is to come back and narrow down our options, not do a building-by-building manhunt.”

“Shin, I don’t think—”

“—Come back, Ace.”

A silence.

“You all heard him.”

McCree turns the volume down as a hubbub of voices make various reports of locations and findings- he turns back to Hanzo and Genji.

“They ain’t figured it out yet, but they will.” He walks over to the minifridge and pulls out a beer. “Y’all want one?”

“I’ll take one,” Genji says, and as McCree hands him the bottle he presses a finger to the side of his faceplate, which releases with a hydraulic hiss to reveal his mouth.

“Oh, do you need…” McCree starts, reaching into his pocket for his bottle opener.

Genji flicks the cap off with his thumb, smirking before tipping the bottle back and taking a large gulp.

“Heh. Right.” McCree grabs a bottle for himself and pops the top with his bottle opener, taking a sip himself.

As he closes the fridge Hanzo stands up from his spot on the floor, closing up the first aid kit.

“So, we remain here for the day?” He asks.

“I reckon it’d be best to leave here at night,” McCree says, turning to the window, where light seeps around the outline of the drawn curtains. “I say we rest up here, head out when night falls. I can take the couch.”

“Nonsense. You and Hanzo take the bed.” Genji retorts. “I can’t tell the difference,” he adds with a laugh.

“No, Genji—” Hanzo starts.

“—Hey, you heard the man.” McCree says. “We can fit two. Just pretend it’s Vegas, and you’re with thrifty friends.”

With that, he turns and heads to the adjacent bedroom, taking another sip of his beer.

Hanzo grimaces. He’s never been to Vegas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> 'Kay, couple things:  
> -as always, thanks to my wonderful beta ChaosandMayhem- Chaos, I'm sorry I'm like this  
> -I know people have their various theories about how human or cyborg Genji is, but for story mechanics I'm just establishing that Genji eats/drinks by removing part of his faceplate  
> -Thanks for reading! Leave a comment and support your humble fanfic authors <3


	5. Tainted Hands

Chapter 5: Tainted Hands

Hanzo doesn’t sleep much.

McCree, on the other hand, is out as soon as his head hits the pillow. Hanzo knows that the cowboy was definitely fatigued from the stunt he had pulled earlier, but he can’t help feeling a little jealous.

But between the bloodstained and wrinkled dress shirt he wears (which makes him regret turning down McCree’s offered T-shirt), the throbbing from his aching hand, and the inescapable heat pooling in the spot where their backs touch on this too-cramped bed, sleep only finds Hanzo in small doses that do nothing to alleviate his exhaustion.

He spends the rest of the time watching the sunlight that creeps out around the edge of the curtain grow and shift, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of McCree’s breathing against his back.

The sunlight is just starting to glow golden when the call comes.

Hanzo starts to get up to answer it, but McCree yawns and pats his shoulder drowsily.

“You ain’t supposed to be here. I got it.”

He reaches over for the phone that rests on the nightstand, pushing himself into a sitting position as he brings the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?”

McCree listens for a while, still in a bleary half-sleep. Then, he straightens up, eyes blinking wide in response to something the caller had said.

“Mm.”

Hanzo eases himself up, stretching as much as he can in the little space.

“Yeah. Okay, I’m on my way.”

McCree puts the phone down and runs a hand through his unkempt hair.

“What is it?” Hanzo asks.

“Front desk says there’s a package for me,” McCree says, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “Sounds suspicious as all hell, but looks like I gotta go get it.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

“Naw,” McCree says as he stands up and stretches. “Prob’ly best if you and Genji stay here, outta sight.”

Hanzo’s eyes wander to the sliver of bronze skin that peeks out from between his T-shirt and loose gray sweatpants, but he averts his gaze as the cowboy finishes his stretch and the glimpse of McCree’s belly, with its hint of dark hair, disappears. He feels a flush creep up the back of his neck and attempts to banish the thought from his mind.

McCree swipes Peacekeeper off of the nightstand, turning away from Hanzo, and when he goes for the door to the room he sees its grip hanging out of his waistband. As he opens the door he turns to Hanzo with a wink and a smile- a thoughtless action, but one that is enough to give him pause.

“It’ll be quick. Promise.”

He disappears beyond the door, and Hanzo hears the opening and heavy shutting of the main door.

And then silence.

He sits alone on the empty bed and considers waking Genji.

* * *

 

“Quick” becomes nerve-wracking as the quiet minutes creep by at an agonizingly slow pace, and Hanzo is ready to grab his bow and go after McCree himself when the main door opens.

Hanzo gets up from where he sits at the end of the bed, just as McCree walks into the main room with a duffel bag on his shoulder. Genji starts to sit up on the couch, the green lights on his body flaring to life.

“Don’t worry, it’s safe. I checked,” McCree says as he sets the bag down on the floor.

Hanzo leans against the doorframe and McCree kicks the bag to him as Genji arches his back in the equivalent of a stretch, his hydraulic joints hissing.

“What’s that?” he asks, settling back into the couch cushion.

Hanzo kneels down to open the bag as McCree walks past him, back into the room.

When he does, he is greeted by a note resting on top of a neatly folded nest of clothes. _His clothes_ , he realizes, and what must be some of Genji’s possessions.

He snatches up the note and reads the finely written Japanese script, his heart racing.

“It’s from Shin,” he says aloud. “He managed to sneak some of our possessions out of the castle, and throw the guard off of our trail temporarily. But we must leave Hanamura tonight.”

“That’s what we was plannin’, anyway,” McCree says from inside the bedroom. “And daylight’s startin’ to go, so we might as well get a move on.”

Hanzo looks through the clothes in the bag as Genji stands up from the couch, and a smile crosses his face when he sees the familiar silk of his obi among the garments. Genji kneels down next to him and Hanzo quickly takes a pair of slacks and a shirt and leaves to give his brother space.

As he does, McCree steps out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt, carrying his boots in one hand and his hat in the other. He looks at Hanzo and jerks his chin towards the room, indicating its vacancy.

Hanzo closes the door just as McCree sits down on the couch to start pulling on his boots.

It feels good to finally peel off the white dress shirt, with its bloodstains and missing buttons, and although he would have preferred a shower over a change of clothes he knows that they no longer have the time to spare.

He dresses himself and opens the door to see Genji pulling a black sweatshirt over his head. It looks ridiculous at first, accompanied by a black pair of sweatpants, but when his brother pulls up the hood it does, indeed, make him significantly less conspicuous.

Hanzo tosses his ruined outfit into the duffel bag and stoops down to zip it up.

“You ready?” McCree asks.

“Yes. Where will we go?” Hanzo says as he straightens himself back up.

McCree shrugs. “Airport’s our best bet, hopin’ yer goons won’t chase us that far.”

“They might,” Genji says, trying to get a pair of sneakers on over his cybernetic feet. “It’s still our best bet, either way.”

Hanzo sighs and goes over to help Genji. “And how will we get there? We can’t exactly hail a taxi.”

McCree takes off his hat to rake his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to steal a car. I’m sure Winston will be more than willing to repay the owner.”

With Hanzo pushing from the bottom, Genji manages to get one sneaker on.

“Wait, what about Gibraltar? Why don’t we just call them?” Hanzo asks, tying the shoe while Genji starts on the other one.

“No dice.” McCree says, and Hanzo can hear the spurs clinking as he walks to the fridge. “Got near the castle, and some kind of jammer just up and fried my phone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t take calls, can’t make calls. My expensive, Overwatch-issued piece a’shit is now exclusively a Candy Crush machine. I can fix a radio, but phones are a bit more complicated.” He opens the fridge and pulls out the last beer, fishing around in his pocket for the bottle opener. “Yours workin’?”

“Mine was left at the castle, and Shin did not return it with the other items. I imagine Haru specifically wanted it.” Hanzo says as he helps Genji with the other shoe.

“Our best hope is still the airport, then,” Genji says, tugging on the shoe one last time before it pops on.

McCree offers the beer to Hanzo as Genji ties the sneaker. He takes the bottle with a grateful nod, and takes a gulp before returning it to McCree, who turns on the radio as he takes his drink.

They all wait with bated breath, but only radio static comes over the speakers. McCree switches it off.

“I figured they must’ve realized by now.” He finishes off the beer and sets the empty bottle on the table. “Y’all ready to go?”

Hanzo looks down at his bandaged hand with a grimace. “Perhaps we should take some supplies from the first aid kit.”

“Not a bad idea,” McCree says, making his way over to the closet. “Lemme take another look at your hand while we’re at it.”

He returns with the little red case and Hanzo starts unwrapping the bandage, the layers growing darker and darker red as he gets closer to the actual wound. He winces as the final layer peels off, the dried blood sticking to the exposed part of the hand.

McCree opens the case and takes out the bandage roll and an alcohol wipe. He sets the roll on the table and tears open the wipe packet, taking Hanzo’s hand in his and turning it over, inspecting the now caked-over wound.

“’Aight, this is gonna sting a little,” he says, sitting down in front of him. He looks up to meet Hanzo’s gaze and gives him a quick wink. “But I know you’ve lived through worse.”

He opens up the wipe and Hanzo braces himself.

The cold hits first, and, a second later, the pain. McCree’s doing as gentle a job as he can, but there’s no real way to mitigate it. Hanzo breathes in sharply, screwing his eyes shut and holding back a scream, holding his breath as McCree wipes away the caked blood and leftover grime.

Then it’s gone, although the throbbing continues, and McCree starts to rewrap his hand. Hanzo lets out the stale air in his lungs with a shuddering exhale.

“Okay, you’re all done,” McCree says reassuringly, continuing to wrap the bandage.

Hanzo huffs. “No need to treat me like a child.”

McCree tears off the length of bandage, chuckling. “I’m not, darlin’. That’s just my bedside manner talkin’.”

He rummages through the kit, taking bandages, rubbing alcohol, tweezers and a few more supplies before zipping it up and putting it back in the closet.

Hanzo gets up, flexing his hand slowly to test the integrity of the wrapping. Genji picks up the duffel bag and turns to McCree.

“Should we go, then?”

* * *

 

The truck is old, rickety, and smells of stale cigarettes, but despite Hanzo’s protests it does the job. Genji lies down in the back seat, and McCree takes the wheel, leaving Hanzo to stare out the window at the sunset filtering through the passing maple trees.

It is not long before they are out of Hanamura, passing through the countryside in silence.

“How’s it feel?” McCree asks, shaking Hanzo out of his reverie.

He turns to look at Jesse, who drives with one hand on the wheel and one out the window- driving like he owns the car. The fading sunlight falls golden on his face, the scruff on his chin catching the glow. His dark brown eyes flick to Hanzo for a brief moment before returning to the road.

“Y’know, leaving home?” he adds when Hanzo doesn’t immediately respond.

Hanzo takes a deep breath and settles into the seat, pondering his answer.

“It is… strange,” he says. “It always has been, throughout the years. Part of me knows that I have no home there. But part of me…”

He trails off, and his eyes shift up to the rearview mirror, past where Genji lies in the back with his lights dimmed, to where the city of Hanamura disappears in the distance.

“Part of me keeps hoping.”

In the silence that follows his response, Hanzo finds himself regretting it. _What a stupid thing to say. Wishing you could go back, after that shameful display._

 The moment drags on, but McCree breaks the pause with a heavy sigh.

“Amen to that one.”

Hanzo turns to him, surprised by the comment. The cowboy keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, although the expression on his face seems far away, almost wistful.

Eventually he turns to Hanzo, feeling the weight of the other’s gaze, and when he does, his eyes travel slowly over Hanzo’s face, lingering just slightly on a particular spot- not his eyes, but close. When he finally does meet his gaze, Hanzo can see, can _feel_ a hesitance. He can see the slight parting of McCree’s lips, just on the brink of saying something further.

And then the moment has passed, and McCree turns his attention back to the road, clearing his throat as he resettles into the seat.

Hanzo turns back to the window, trying to watch the sunset but failing to see anything other than McCree’s reflection on the glass. He swallows hard and wonders if he imagined the whole exchange.

* * *

 

Night has fallen by the time they reach the airport, and McCree pulls into the long-term parking garage, taking a ticket that he knows he won’t be back to make good on.

Hanzo hops out from the passenger side, and Genji hands him one of the duffel bags from where he sits in the back before getting out. McCree gets down from the driver’s side and slams the door shut, rubbing his face with his gloved hand.

“I’m hopin’ this all turns out okay,” he says with a sigh. “But, y’know. Be vigilant.”

Hanzo nods to him and smirks. “Always.”

They make their way to the main airport, staying as inconspicuous as possible- Hanzo with his long-sleeved dress shirt, Genji with his black hood pulled up. McCree takes the lead, with the justification that his face is less recognizable to any Shimada recon that might be hanging around.

After sitting in a short line, McCree makes his way to the counter. Hanzo and Genji follow, keeping their gazes averted. As he waits, Hanzo watches the other individuals lounging around the lobby- families saying goodbyes, couples sharing final kisses, businessmen with briefcases, their black patent shoes tapping impatiently on the glossy white tiles.

“Lookin’ for any red-eyes you got headin’ for Spain,” McCree says, his easy demeanor betraying none of the anxiety that Hanzo knows he feels. “I’d prefer Gibraltar, but Barcelona’s fine if it’s all you got.”

Something rustles next to him, and Hanzo looks down to see McCree fidgeting with the edge of his garish belt.

_Where he usually keeps his gun,_ he realizes.

“Let me check,” the attendant says, turning to her computer.

McCree lets out a shuddering breath as the woman turns away, the gloved hand balling into a fist, then relaxing, then returning to the same place on his belt, where his holster usually rests.

Without even thinking, Hanzo puts his hand over McCree’s, squeezing it reassuringly. The cowboy jumps, turning to him, and swallows hard when Hanzo uses his other hand to clasp his.

“It’s going to be fine.”

McCree bites his lip. “I’m just nervous, is all.”

Hanzo lets go of his hand. “You seemed confident earlier.”

McCree glances around before looking back at Hanzo. “Yeah, I know, I just… Somethin’ don’t feel right.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to reply, but stops when the attendant turns back to McCree.

“Okay, we have a few seats still open on a 9:30 to Barcelona. And a few on a midnight flight to Gibraltar.”

As McCree’s demeanor changes to respond to the woman, Hanzo watches the people gathered with a more careful eye. A family of four enters the lobby, a husband and wife with two sons- one slightly older, carrying his own luggage, and the other toddling around in a bright green puffer jacket.

He watches them with a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, watching the littlest one running a few feet in front of the rest, then turning back and waiting for them to catch up, and running forward once more. The older one keeps pace with his parents, dragging his suitcase behind him and watching his younger brother run around with a kind of mild frustration.

The sliding doors open again and another businessman walks through, carrying a briefcase. Hanzo watches him disinterestedly as McCree’s voice fades to a distant rumble in the back of his mind.

The man is dressed in a black suit, his briefcase made of fine leather, and he pauses as the doors close behind him. And, ever so slightly, his gaze shifts to one of the other businessmen waiting inside- and it lingers for just half a second too long.

It is nearly imperceptible. It would have gone unnoticed had Hanzo not been watching him.

He feels his heart jump into his throat, and flicks his gaze to the one that the newcomer had glanced at. The man is also well-dressed, with his black hair gelled back, talking into a Bluetooth earpiece as he stands. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and pivots… catching Hanzo’s gaze.

The man’s eyes widen and he shouts something into his earpiece, reaching for something. Hanzo doesn’t stay to find out what.

“Get down!” he yells, grabbing McCree and Genji by the backs of their necks and forcing them to the ground as a gunshot echoes through the building, followed by the screams of the civilians gathered there.

The attendant shrieks as she ducks down, and another gunshot rings through the air. Many of the other suited men reach for their guns as well, some now running from other areas of the lobby.

The three stay hunkered down as another few gunshots miss them entirely. Hanzo looks out at the families and passengers running for cover, searching for the family that had just come in when the firefight had started. He catches a flash of bright green out of the corner of his eye, and turns just in time to see the older brother running behind one of the airline counters, carrying his little brother in his arms.

Hanzo swallows hard and turns to McCree and Genji.

“We have to get out of here. At the very least, take this somewhere else.”

“I agree,” Genji says. “There are too many civilians here.”

“Well then,” McCree says, pulling the duffel bags closer with a shuddering breath. “Better get ready for a fight.”

Hanzo unzips the bag, taking out Storm Bow and his quiver. “I’d like to avoid one, if possible.”

McCree takes Peacekeeper’s disassembled parts and starts putting his gun together. “Can’t run from everything, darlin’.”

Genji takes one of the bags over his shoulder and gives a nod. McCree takes the other bag and cocks his gun, taking a deep breath. Hanzo nocks an arrow into his bow, standing up and rolling his shoulders back.

McCree stands up beside him and fires six aimed shots at the suited Shimada men, each finding their mark- although not lethally. Hanzo draws back his arrow and breathes in through his nose, aiming at the man who had noticed him. In the pause before his exhale he releases the arrow, and he doesn’t wait to see if his aim held true.

The three of them are already off, taking the stairs two or three at a time, Genji deflecting bullets with his blade, McCree turning to take shots only when he has them, Hanzo loosening a few arrows but shaking out his injured hand after each one.

As they reach the door, one of the men tosses his weapon aside and reaches out to try and restrain Hanzo, who has one hand on his bow and another holding an arrow in ready position. The ambitious man gets one hand on Hanzo’s arm before he reels away, screaming as McCree doubles back and pistol whips him.

The arc of blood that spurts from the man’s forehead draws another scream from the crowd, and as McCree draws his gun back towards him once more Hanzo sees blood dripping off of the spur attached to Peacekeeper’s grip.

Then they are out of the building, and the cool night air chills the sweat on McCree and Hanzo’s faces. With Genji leading, the three sprint into the parking garage, the sound of footfalls behind them driving them forward.

As they run deeper into the structure, the concrete walls echo the flurry of footfalls and their source becomes indecipherable by the time they reach the rusted red truck. They all pile in, the doors having been left unlocked, and McCree starts it up.

“Come on, come on, come on…” he mumbles as the engine sputters once, before roaring to life.

As soon as it is up and running he backs it out of the space, and starts for the exit. As they turn the first corner, however, they see about ten of the Shimada henchmen running at them from the other end of the corridor, guns drawn and ready.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Get down!”

Hanzo and Genji comply, and McCree gets as low as he can while still seeing the road, heading straight for the mass of them. They all fire, and a few hit the bumper but most shoot wide. One clips the corner of the windshield, and a crack spiders across its surface.

To their credit, the men hold their ground until the last second, and all but two manage to duck out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. McCree skids around the corner, sitting back up in the seat and glancing up at the rearview mirror for signs of their pursuers.

Hanzo sits up and turns to the back window, and as they turn another corner he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“They’re far behind us.”

“Good.”

At the end of the final level, McCree grinds to a halt at the gate. He pulls the entry ticket from the sun visor and feeds it into the machine.

“It’s only thirty yen,” he says, patting himself. “Fuck, where’s my wallet?”

“Why are we bothering with this?” Hanzo asks, anxiously looking out the back for the attackers.

In the back, Genji unzips one of the duffel bags. He leans forward between the two of them and hands a coin to McCree. “It’ll pop our tires if we run the gate.”

McCree takes the coin with a grateful nod and pops it into the machine. Hanzo finds himself glancing behind him constantly as the arm lifts at an agonizingly slow pace.

Finally, it is up, and they are through, and just as they begin to pick up speed they hear a crash behind him. Hanzo and Genji turn back to see the gate arm torn and bent, and a black SUV stuck in place with slashed tires. The passenger door pops open and a man in a black suit stumbles out, trying vainly to shoot at them as they drive away.

McCree looks up at the rearview mirror with a smile as they leave the ruined Shimada van behind them.

“Ain’t no justice like the poetic kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -First and foremost, thanks so much for being patient while i navigated finals and the holidays!  
> -thanks, as always, to the best beta ever ChaosandMayhem!!  
> -the next update will be two Sundays from now, and then back to the regular biweekly Sunday update :)  
> -thanks for reading! leave a comment if you are moved to <3


	6. Tequila Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on this one, folks. Spring semester and my screenplay forced me into a hiatus, and I don't think I'll be able to stick to my original biweekly update schedule.
> 
> As an apology, here is the link to the OFFICIAL _Waiting for the Rain_ inspo playlist! (Apologies in advance, there are a lot of Eagles songs on there.)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Desert Skies, Pretty Eyes- ](https://open.spotify.com/user/chipleeey/playlist/5CKBH44vz4SKGDc5yMPj6l) the Official _Waiting for the Rain_ inspo playlist!

They drive until the sun rises with hardly any words exchanged. It is only when the low gas indicator lights up that McCree pulls off the main road and into the nearest town.

As they approach the gas station, McCree clears his throat.

“We should get something to eat while we’re here.”

Hanzo looks around at the small, sleepy town, washed in the rosy light of the rising sun. “Perhaps we should stay here for the day. Regroup, make a new plan.”

McCree parks in front of the pump and opens the door. “That ain’t a bad idea.”

He steps out, and as the door slams shut the silence is once again deafening. Hanzo watches the side mirror as Jesse comes around the back of the truck, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

“Hanzo,” Genji says from the back seat.

“Yes?” he replies, still watching as Jesse lifts the pump.

“I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since the funeral—”

“Why not? You’ve been here this whole—”

“—Not alone.”

“Oh.” Hanzo turns over in the seat, averting his gaze from the mirror just as McCree lifts his hat to run a hand through his hair. He looks at Genji. “What is it you wanted to say?”

Genji says nothing for a long minute, and although the impassive green visor shows no sign of his true expression, Hanzo can almost feel the weight of his brother’s scrutiny.

“We have been through a lot these past few days,” he says. “Are you… okay?”

Hanzo swallows hard. “Perhaps not yet. But I will be.” He takes a deep breath. “I am… sorry. That I dragged you with me.”

Genji shakes his head. “Do not forget, brother, that I chose to come here. Take no responsibility for my actions.”

Genji turns to the window, and Hanzo follows his gaze to where McCree stands, hands on his hips, watching the ticker. Genji says nothing, and Hanzo finds himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Was that… it?” he asks finally. “Was that all you wanted to say?”

Genji stays silent for a moment, before clearing his throat. “I see that you are considerably less hostile towards Jesse.”

“He has earned my respect.” When Genji looks at him with a judgmental silence, he adds: “I am man enough to admit when I am wrong.”

Genji chuckles and turns back to the window. “I told you that he is a good man. And I am glad that you have decided to give him a chance.”

McCree stretches, turning to squint into the rising sun as it casts a dusty pink glow onto his face. With the slight shift he catches the brothers watching him, and he waves at them with a grin. Genji waves back.

As Hanzo watches he can’t help smiling.

“What can I say? He is growing on me.”

* * *

 

The motel room is cramped, with one bed and a small couch, but none of them are in a place to complain. Hanzo and Genji carry in the two duffel bags and dump them on the floor as McCree quickly inspects the room.

He checks the old paintings that are hung on the cracked, slightly off-white walls; he kicks off his boots and tests the green carpeted floor with his socked feet; he checks the dust pile on the cheap metal window frame. And when he is finally satisfied, he takes off his hat and tosses it onto the bed.

“I saw a restaurant on the way here, if we wanna grab somethin’ for breakfast,” he drawls, placing Peacekeeper on the desk.

Hanzo opens up his bag and pulls out some clothes. “I’m taking a shower first. I feel filthy.”

“Sure. I might take one after ya,” McCree replies as Hanzo opens the bathroom door.

Hanzo looks back at him with a smirk. “Didn’t know you _took_ showers.”

Genji seems a little taken aback by the comment, but McCree lets out a good-natured laugh.

“Asshole.”

Hanzo closes the door behind him but they can both hear him laughing as he does.

McCree wipes a little moisture from his eye and sighs, pulling his bag onto the bed and rummaging through it. Genji watches him in silent curiosity. McCree turns to him, feeling the weight of his gaze just as the muffled sound of splashing water is heard from the other side of the wall.

“What?”

Genji shakes his head with a laugh. “Just when I thought I had you figured out, Jesse McCree…”

McCree rolls his eyes and continues looking through his bag. “Hey. I can take a joke.”

“It’s not that. I just never thought it would be from my brother, of all people.”

McCree pauses, and glances at the bathroom door, so quickly that it must have been a subconscious act. “Me neither.”

He takes out a set of clothes and zips up the bag, hoping to end the conversation at that- but Genji is not so easily swayed.

“He’s warmed up to you very quickly,” he says, leaning against the wall in front of him with his arms crossed. “I wonder why that is.”

McCree laughs as he sets the bag back on the floor. “I like that yer askin’ me like I know the answer.”

Genji drops his chin to make his scrutiny more obvious. “I think that maybe you do.”

McCree crosses his arms and shrugs, averting his gaze. “I dunno. I guess he maybe just trusts me a little more. Y’know, after Hanamura and all.”

“Hm.”

Without warning, Genji reaches forward and forcefully grabs McCree’s chin with one hand.

“What the—”

Genji doesn’t respond, instead turning Jesse’s cheek and examining him closely.

“It’s curious. It seems I do not know my brother quite as well as I thought.”

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” McCree asks, his words mumbled with his mouth pinched between Genji’s fingers.

“I was so sure that you weren’t his type,” Genji sniffs, releasing McCree from his grip.

“What?!” McCree shouts as he reels back, rubbing his jaw and gawking at the still-nonchalant Genji.

“I—” Genji starts to say, stopping short when the water turns off. They both turn around as the bathroom door swings open, and Hanzo steps out in a clean t-shirt and dark jeans, his long black hair down and dripping. He looks at the both of them, slightly perplexed.

Genji turns back to McCree, hissing, “I said _nothing_.”

“… Am I interrupting something?”

“Uh…” McCree says, eyes flicking to Genji and back to Hanzo. “I’ve, uh… never seen you with your hair down. Looks good!”

With that, he grabs the clothes on the bed and rushes past the two brothers, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him.

Hanzo stares at the shut door until the water comes on, and turns back to Genji.

“What was that about?”

Genji shrugs.

“Hell if I know.”

* * *

 

The restaurant is small and sleepy, much like the town around it. By the time the three seat themselves into a corner table, the light filtering through the slotted blinds has gone from the rosy pink of daybreak to the clean white of midmorning.

It is not a fancy establishment, by any means- with its array of laminated wood tables, plastic utensils, and cheap paper signs, it is clear that the so-called “Omo Stop” is the local place for quick, inexpensive dining.

Genji fiddles with the table marker as Hanzo peels the lid off of his to-go tea. McCree pulls apart his chopsticks while Hanzo reaches for a plastic spoon.

“Why are you using chopsticks? It’s omurice.” Hanzo asks before taking a sip of the tea.

“Hey. I can use chopsticks.” McCree rubs them together to get rid of the splinters.

“So can I. That doesn’t mean I use them every time.”

McCree just sticks his tongue out in response, setting his chopsticks down and reaching for his soda.

“Do we know where we’re going next?” Genji asks, still sliding the table marker back and forth across the table.

McCree pauses just as he’s about to take a sip of his drink. “Well. We could try for a different airport, but I don’t know how that will go.”

“No,” Hanzo says. “I think it’s safe to assume that another attempt at flying out of Japan will prove disastrous.”

“Then where will we go?”

Hanzo blows on his tea and settles back into the seat. “I don’t know. Tokyo, maybe. Hide in plain sight for a while.”

“Sounds fun. Never been to Tokyo before.”

“It’s a beautiful city. It…” Hanzo pauses mid-sentence, staring into his tea. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Hanzo.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t look up.

“ _Hanzo_.” This time, McCree reaches forward to lower Hanzo’s cup, making sure not to startle him, and gently guides it down to the table. Hanzo looks up to meet his gaze, his half-smile faltering.

McCree gently pries Hanzo’s fingers off of the cup and takes his bandaged hand in his own, still keeping eye contact with him. “Whenever I get an assignment like this, I know that somethin’ could happen. I knew the risks.”

He feels a flush creep up his neck, but before he can continue the waitress arrives with their food on a plastic tray. He instinctively releases Hanzo’s hand, looking away and rubbing at the itchiness in the back of his neck. He takes a long sip of his drink as the waitress passes out the food.

When she is finished, she bows slightly, mutters out an “Arigato,” and returns to the kitchen.

Hanzo takes his plastic spoon and digs it into his omurice. Although he is deliberately looking down, McCree notices the slight flush in his face.

The three eat in silence for a while; Genji lifting up his faceplate to do so, McCree struggling with the cheap, disposable chopsticks.

Finally, McCree clears his throat, dropping the little bit of rice he had managed to pick up between the chopsticks. Hanzo hands him an extra spoon.

“I just figured I’d ask…” he says, taking the spoon sheepishly. “But, how many are in your guard? These guys seem like they’re endless.”

Hanzo and Genji exchange a glance across the table, and Genji just as quickly averts his gaze and takes a large bite of his rice. Hanzo looks to McCree, swallowing hard before he speaks.

“Even the amount of guard we’ve encountered thus far is more than the force we remember.” He pauses. “We think that Haru has already called on our family’s allies in the Yakuza and elsewhere. Which means…”

“…Which means that they’re gonna have eyes everywhere.” McCree finishes Hanzo’s thought, halting with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Tokyo might be our best option,” Genji says, having just swallowed the large bite he had taken to avoid answering the original question. “They’ll have people everywhere, but in a smaller town it’ll be harder for us to blend in.”

“As it stands, it is already hard enough for us to blend in,” Hanzo adds. “At least in the city, we stand a chance.”

“Yeah, and then what?”

Hanzo sighs, leaning back into the seat and focusing his gaze on the table. “Get a hotel room, lie low for a few days. Wait and hope that the attention will die down, and make another attempt to leave.”

A heavy silence hangs between the three, McCree still holding the spoon to his mouth. He clears his throat and finishes taking his bite, glancing at both of the brothers before averting his gaze.

* * *

 

It’s still a sleepy little town, even after the sun is risen.

The three wander the streets, pulling the hoods up on their sweatshirts and remaining ever vigilant.

They walk along the empty docks, watching the fishing boats out on the sea. They pass by small herbal shops tended by old women with wrinkled skin like parchment, the occasional cart selling dried fish, and by the time the sun begins to set over the generally still waters, they’ve managed to regain some momentary semblance of peace.

They make their way back to the motel, the sky fading back into the pinks and purples of the rosy sunrise.

* * *

 

The night brings with it an unprecedented solace. Genji settles himself on the couch and powers down, leaving Hanzo and Jesse to their own.

Hanzo sits on the edge of the bed, his long, dark hair still damp from his second shower. The room is dark, lit only by the small yellow lamp on the nightstand and the light leaking from underneath the bathroom door.

The lock on the bathroom door clicks open, and the light flooding from the room flicks off. Hanzo looks up as Jesse walks into the dim yellow light, a white towel hung around his neck and his gray T-shirt slung over his arm.

His skin is tawny, Hanzo notes, and although his form is not slim, it hints at a hard pack of muscle beneath. His chest is dusted with dark hair, eventually gathering into the trail that he had caught a glimpse of earlier, and disappearing under the loose gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

His phone illuminates his face in white as he absentmindedly scrolls through it. He scratches at his bearded chin with his cybernetic arm.

“Still nothing?”

Jesse turns off the phone with a sigh and tosses it onto the nightstand. He pulls his shirt on over his head and Hanzo averts his gaze, before Jesse has the chance to look at him.

“Nope.” He pauses, wiping his cheek with the towel. “I could… sleep on the floor, if ya want. Noticed y’didn’t really sleep none the other ni—“

“—No!”

Both men stop short, leaving a heavy silence.

Jesse clears his throat. “Well, I mean, I didn’t—I could—“

“I meant—I think my insomnia was due to circumstance more than anything.”

“Understandable.”

His drawl is almost more pronounced as he passes out of Hanzo’s view. He feels the mattress sink beneath him and hears the sheets rustling as Jesse settles in.

“Just let me know if ya need me to leave, y’hear? I ain’t offended.”

After a moment, Hanzo reaches for the lamp and turns it off. He lies down and pulls the sheets over him, immediately feeling the warmth of Jesse curled up at his side.

It is an oddly comfortable presence, and Hanzo begins to feel the tug of sleep pulling at him.

“G’nite,” Jesse mumbles, and the rumble of his voice pulls Hanzo deeper.

Somewhere through the fog of his drowsy mind he finds the wherewithal to reply.

“Good night, Jesse.”


End file.
